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Nathaniel was a patient man, and not quick to anger. He was getting there at his own pace, though - every arrow seeming to have a mind of its own, their capriciousness building on itself until he felt like he couldn’t hit the side of a barn without taking ten deep breaths. A blessed thing that these practice dummies weren’t darkspawn, then. He lowered his bow and rolled his shoulders and neck, willing them to fall into line.
His mood was not improved by the appearance of that blonde idiot the Commander had seen fit to recruit despite the Templars’ quite reasonable desire to incarcerate him. “Nathaniel! My favourite noble rogue thief turned Grey Warden. You should be honoured, I don’t have many of those.”
“Not now, Anders,” gritted Nate, rubbing at the back of his neck. He’d only been shooting for 20 minutes, why the hell was he stiffening up now?
The mage looked seriously concerned, as much as a man wearing a live cat as a scarf could. “Developing some lumps, are we? Let me have a look at that.” Without so much as a by-your-leave, he strolled around to the archer’s back and put his hands on Nate’s shoulders.
“Anders,” Nate started to warn him off but was overwhelmed by an almost ecstatic sensation of ease, if such a thing was possible. “Oohh.” He felt like he’d just woken from the world’s most efficient nap. “What did you do?”
“Just a little something to take the edge off,” the mage smirked, patting Nate’s biceps just a little too enthusiastically. The archer was so impressed he decided to ignore the fact that Anders was almost definitely groping him.