Her aim is good. Not supernaturally good, but better than ever, really. There was a time when she imagined chevaliers, strict mistresses, certain noble men with wandery hands, and innocent frolicking deer moms, and now it's just an even cycle between Venatori, Red Templar, Venatori, Red Templar, (Corypheus,) Venatori.

Alistair's stupid face for making her worry. (That one went wild, which just made her angrier.)

A hand closes around hers and she gives an immediate although not especially loud yowl of indignance, twisting to tell whoever is interrupting her to casse-toi and really only thinking there is but one person who would pull something like that just as she claps eyes on him. His grin is met with her open mouthed surprise, before her nose wrinkles in a snarl and she slaps her bow against his arm.

And once more, along with the Orlesian stream of profanity. By now, Alistair can probably recognise the flash in the pan signs of Fury, the bared teeth in scowls that can so immediately brighten into grins in the sudden shift of her mood. But the knot of tension at her brow is not going away.

She grabs his jaw. It doesn't hurt. "Arsehole," is the one she settles on, after all that, clearly enunciated.