Plenty of choking down poultices and beer with friends have sorted Asher out, that and the good hardy (haha) constitution bestowed by being part-Avvar, part-Fereldan, and raised on a farm. That and whatever chugging dragon blood does to a man because he's always had his suspicions.

For his part, Bronson sighs, butts his head against Sam then Asher's thigh before he goes to flop next to the rest of Asher's gear. Good guard dog.

"Christine could serve your arse to you on a silver platter, trust me. Probably with some fancy accoutrements on account of her being Orlesian." He has to wonder if she'd serve red or white wine though, or if this is maybe the sort of thing where you'd go straight for the port. "But I might serve you myself for wounding me - I'm a soldier of fortune Sam, have been since fifteen. I like my axe but I can handle any weapon, even a bow or a staff if I really have a need. Don't last long if you can't grab whatever you can and use it, even your fists and your feet. Since when do you care about greatswords though?"