It happens out of the blue, at the stupidest possible moment. Varric sweeps his hair and a handful of mud out of his face. There's no escaping the mud that covers him and the Seeker. It's in his hair, his mouth, and down his shirt. The Seeker's no better off- there's mud smeared across her face like war paint, leaves and twigs tangled in her hair, and a branch sticking out of her armour. Cassandra is beautiful. He's filthy, she's filthy, and they've just fallen down a cliff. Varric honestly hates the Storm Coast. At first he chalks the dizzy feeling up to going ass over tea kettle down a hill. Except the feeling doesn't go away once his head clears. Cassandra wipes the mud from her face and Varric is transfixed by the curve of her wrist, stares until he realizes what he's doing and tears his gaze away from her face, tries to avoid looking at her by rummaging around for something to tie his hair back. As it turns out, he doesn't need to look at Cassandra to be aware of her. She pulls the branch from her chest plate and grimaces. Varric feels her moving, is conscious of every muscle and bone in her body. It's a horrible, vulnerable feeling Varric instantly hates. Cassandra runs her fingers through her hair and Varric's own fingers ache to touch her. "You are not injured, Varric?" The Seeker's clipped voice cuts through the quiet, and Varric exhales. "Nothing fatal, Seeker." Varric says, wondering if that's true.