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"Andraste's golden tits," Varric breathes.
"Varric!" Byrne Hawke bristles at the blasphemy, but he can't take his eyes off Isabela's new vessel, either. It's a glorious thing, sleek and fierce and gleaming, though it still smells more of pitch than salt and wind and bilge. If he knows Isabela, that will soon change.
"Now you know why I like big boats," Isabela says, with a grin that widens by the minute. "Isn't he the most gorgeous thing you've ever seen?"
"He?"
"I name my ships," Isabela says. "They're as much a part of my crew as any sailor. And now you can help me affirm it." She produces a cut glass bottle, filled with the liquid fire of an aged Antivan brandy. It's almost too good for the job, and Isabela sips a little before passing the bottle around, nodding for them to do the same.
The liquor burns in Hawke's throat and up into his head. It feels good.
"I dub this ship The Hanged Man!" she whooped, splashing the rest of the brandy onto the prow.
"Full of memories and always there?" asked Hawke.
"More like dingy, crammed with people and just drunk enough to keep it fun," she laughs, gazing lovingly at her ship. Hers, at last, after so many years.
"Rivaini, if I was a crying man, I might shed a single manly tear," Varric quips.
"Into your chest hair?"
"Into my chest hair."