And so the Champion strode into the warehouse, kicking the door into splinters. "Ready to meet the Maker?" she growled. "Too bad, 'cause you're getting me instead!"
Varric shook his head and drew the pen through the words, two dark black lines. "That doesn't sound like her at all." He bit the pen and thought for a moment before dipping the nib in the inkwell.
And so the Champion kicked the door into splinters, bursting into the warehouse. "You've met your match now, you slaver scum! Just wait 'till I
"No no no, this is all wrong!" Varric scribbled out the whole paragraph this time; there was not enough ink in the world to obliterate prose this wretched, and he pressed so hard that he tore a hole in the paper. With a noise of disgust, he ripped the page out of the book, crumpled it up, and threw it across the room.
Of course, that just gave him a new blank page to contend with. He stared at it, elbows propped on the table, fingers buried in his hair, for what felt like forever. Finally he sighed, tossed back the rest of his ale, and started again.
Word on the street is that a gang of Tevinter slavers just holed up in a Lowtown warehouse. Want to do your good deed for the week? Bring Broody, we'll make a day of it.
Varric signed the note with a flourish, then went down the stairs to hunt down a courier. He always worked best from life, anyway.