It was like watching liquid water, the way she moved. Such finesse. She would flip her body, fluidly, and slash her dagger across a throat with astounding precision. Watching her move was like art itself; he could see why poets could be inspired by women. She danced, jumping from tip of her toes to leap a gap between her foes, a dagger digging deeply into the gut of one, before she slid it free easily, dancing away. A dainty wrist would bend, flicking a blade across the expanse to bury itself within a man's eye. Even covered in blood, she was a vision, slipping through the shadows like darkness itself.
He couldn't tear his eyes away.
And when the last foe fell, she turned to him and flashed a brilliant grin. Of victory and triumph.
She started forth with the infallible grace and he watched as her body sashayed like fluidity embodied.
So when she hit her foot on the leg of a dead foe, and proceeded to stumble with limbs all flailing, his eyes widened. She fell forward, a face plant on the chest of her dead enemy and while he should have stepped forward to offer her his hand, he didn't and instead burst into loud laughter.
Maker, only she could be a master at battle and yet be such a klutz in the day to day. Only Hawke.