Solas hears her approach, feet in the snow, a rapid step, but he turns his head only too late; she has him. Were he capable of magic, were the Fade not stripped from him, were he armed and armored— Ah, but he is not. He whirls with Rook's expert technique, and catches the brunt of her fist without even the ability to turn into the force. It is a beautiful punch, well-formed, and all the weight and strength of shoulder and hips drive him to the ground in one single, marvelous blow.

That is going to leave a bruise.

Stunned, Solas lies there for a moment, briefly contemplating every mistake he's ever made beginning, yes, with Varric's death. He doesn't get much farther than that, of course; the list is long, and Rook is unlikely to give him time.

"Fair enough," He grunts, half-scrambling as he pushes himself up out of the wet powder. Helpless he may be, magicless in a way that makes him wish for nothing so much as to weep and scream, but if he is going to be beaten to death on the street then he will at least not go down without a fight, "Ah, Rook. Of course it would be you. You are continuously surprising."

Case in point: the situation he now finds himself in. And also every other situation Rook keeps finding him in. He really wishes this woman were dead.