“For a man who trips over his own tongue when someone pretty so much as looks at ‘im, he sure walks around topless a lot,” Sera observes. She’s leaning on the balcony railing, looking down into the courtyard where the Valo-kas scout is, for some odd reason, practicing his archery with his armor discarded and his shirt tied loosely around his waist.
Next to her, Dorian and Rorie lean on the balcony, nearly hanging over it in their strain to have the absolute best view possible, of that sculpted back, the thick muscles in his shoulders flexing as he drew back his bowstring. On Sera’s other side, Josephine’s pulled out a small gold spyglass and seems to be using it to follow the trail of sweat trickling down the line of his spine, murmuring appreciatively to herself. Cassandra is leaning against the wall behind them, trying very hard to look as if she is not ogling the scout just as much as the rest of them.
Bull, the lucky bastard, is down in the courtyard with him, in the best seat in the house, perched on a barrel pretending to focus on sharpening his blade while calling out the occasional pointer, though he has no real idea what he’s doing, seeing as he’s most likely never touched a bow in his life.
Berk takes it in stride (though he’s clearly unaware of his audience) and occasionally calls back his own little jibes about swordplay– which he knows nothing about himself. Bull says something too low for the audience on the balcony to hear, and the scout turns his head to reply. There’s a smile on his lips, and a twinkle in his crimson eyes.
Sera can practically smell the sexual tension in the air. She glances around at the… ridiculously hormonal watchers and is suddenly stricken with an idea.
While they’re suitably distracted, she inhales deeply, puts two fingers in her mouth, and blows hard. The whistle tears across the courtyard, high and shrill, and hot on its trail is a crowing call of, “Now do a slow turn for us, pretty boy!”
The scout whips around so fast his long braid whips around his head and smacks him in the face, leaving him sputtering for a moment. Even from the balcony, the elven archer can see his entire face go from brown to a deep, dark red. Some noise escapes him, something high and strangled, and he whirls on heel and flees. Bull laughs uproariously.
They all watch him go before turning to glare at Sera, who just grins. “I regret nothing.”
Rorie snatches Josephine’s spyglass and watches the fleeing merc’s back. “Josephine, take a letter,” he says officiously. He waits for her to make an affirmative noise, though she has no paper or pen. “I intend to tap that.”
Dorian clapped the Inquisitor on the shoulder, biting his lip appreciatively. “I second that.”