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Tiresian climbed out of the bathhouse waters. Sheets of water cascaded down his legs and back into the pool. He wrapped a towel around his waist and pressed another into his face as the water drained down his body. A new set of footsteps entered the room and grew in volume as they padded across the stone floor. He took a moment to listen to the rhythm and weight of the steps. His best guess was that his new companion was Varric. A drawn-out whistle resounded against the bathhouse walls.
"Those are quite the scars, Rook," Varric's voice confirmed. "How'd you manage to survive that one?"
Tiresian removed the towel from his face. He remembered no scars which would draw that reaction, and looking down at his unclothed body now, he discovered no new scars that had formed unnoticed from any of the scuffles of the past few days.
"What are you talking about?" he asked flatly.
Varric chuckled, "Don't tell me you already can't keep track."
As he finished removing his own shirt, Varric traced with his thumb a line under his breasts. Tiresian squinted. Was he talking about his mastectomy scars? That could be the only reasonable explanation.
"Do you mean to tell me you have no trained surgeons in the south?" he asked.
Varric shrugged, "On occassion. But I'm sure they can't hold a candle to what you Mortalitasi can do. Or at least the rumors of what you can do. Especially with a scratch like that. So what was it? Undead soldier? Dragon? Particularly fluffy griffon by the name of Feathers?"
Tiresian began to pat down his arms and chest with his head towel.
"Nothing so fantastic as that," he said absently.
"Not with that attitude it wasn't," he ribbed. "Don't worry, Rook, whatever it was, I'll make sure to keep your pride in tact when I retell it."
Tiresian frowned, "It was a routine surgery. Not even the most difficult part of the process."
"Routine, huh? Were you practicing making mummies of each other?"
"That sounds ill-advised and needlessly dangerous. Why would we do that?"
"Ha!" Varric barked. "We have got to take you down to Kirkwall someday! But don't leave me hanging: what was the worst part then?"
Tiresian was nearly ready to put his clothes back on. He finished drying off his legs and removed his remaining towel.
He said, "I would say that would be the construction and attachment of my neophallus."
Varric sputtered.
"Hold on," he said. "Did you say neophallus?"
A spark flickered in Tiresian's head. This could be a perfect chance for a joke, and he was going to seize it. Varric was about to be so proud of him.
"Yes," he deadpanned. "They're all the rage in Nevarra."