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"Don't SQUEEZE it like that," snorted Fenris. Merrill looked up from her apple, shocked to hear a voice she recognises all the way down by the Wounded Coast. "Just...try and relax. I promise not to maim you."
"Easy for you to say," grunted yet another familiar voice. Carver! Hawke's brother, with the lovely arms and the lovely sword. If a voice could drip with sweat, his certainly would. "You've had experience."
"Far too much. Not by choice. Now. Relax, and follow my lead. Forward--ow! Gently!--and back. Forward, and back. Slow. Fast. Yes, right there, from the hip. Lengthen your stroke. Pace yourself, pace! This is no race!"
"I'm—trying—aieuuurgh!! Oh balls, it's too hard!"
"If it's not hard, it's not worth it!"
Merrill's head slowly edged over the top of her rocky hideaway, a peachy flush spreading across both cheeks. Dusting some errant sand from her shins, she trotted up to the source of the noise, darting behind rocks and scrub as the noises got louder and more...grunty.
She jogged into the clearing to find Fenris and Carver, glistening with sweat, much of their clothes in a messy pile and...sparring, swords drawn. Oh.
"What are you doing here, mage?" Fenris snarled, and she saw the lyrium tattoos spark, from the tips of his fingers and toes all the way up to his nut-brown throat.
"Merrill?" Well, at least someone remembered her name. "Er, um. Don'ttellmybrother," he blurted out.
"Why would I?" she responded. "You two seem to have your hands full of each other already. Oh my!" she exclaimed, as Carver's jaw fell open and Fenris' mouth contorted into a horrified shape she couldn't describe. "Did I say something wrong?"