“I think I was feeling that on the journey to Skyhold itself,” as she places the bow in his hands, “but I was also in a carriage with unhealed cauterised lacerations from a rage demon across a third of my body, so it's hard to narrow down the specific causes of pain at that point.”

God, she must be fun at parties.

Gwenaëlle sits, one foot tucked underneath herself and one knee up by her shoulder, automatically adjusting slightly when Small Yngvi does a big stretch and saunters over to make himself comfortable somewhere in the puddle of her skirts. “I found this in a swamp,” and it's probably only clear a moment later that she means the bow and not the cat. “I'd sort of fallen, sort of been dragged out of a tree and I landed in the — we're going to call it water, for the sake of my peace of mind — and I put my hand on it. The string sort of...exists when you need it to. I shot a wyvern directly in the eye that day, and then it was months before I recreated even half so good a shot again.”