so an elf and a witch of the wilds walk into a bar....

[elfroot]

Characters: Zevran Arainai, Morrigan, Alistair I hope, and anyone else who might be interested...
Setting/Location: One very lucky inn!
Date & Time: Day 0, morningish
Warnings: Do not disturb a sleeping witch.
Summary: In order to leave town, you must first choose your party members.

Comments

[dissentive]

Morrigan had many wonders in this world. The manners of people was always a prominent one, particularly often spending her time forced to ponder how the stupid managed to survive, or how one could have much of a life remaining oblivious to their surroundings (though that, surely, became soon labelled under the 'stupidity' clause). For now, however, her sleep-doused thoughts lingered on why she was so comfortable, and why the ground beneath her was soft unlike the hard dirt she had laid herself to rest on earlier in the evening. Why, too, were the blankets thusly so thick when it had been warm enough outdoors to only require threadbare sheets? And why did the wind not caress her skin, but rather the stale stillness of the indoors - and why, most importantly, why was Zevran so close to her when he preferred placing his tent near the center campfire, and whyfor further was he talking to himself?

'Twas not of her doing. Morrigan had little interest nor desire to go near the depths of the elf's mind to even twist it in the slightest of

[elfroot]

Ah, sweet serendipity. That voice, those dulcet, loving tones! Zevran would know them anywhere, and indeed, it is the very sound that haunts his dreams some nights. If ever he is to have a nightmare about being hunted down and devoured by a woman-spider, Morrigan's is always the face his imagination conjures. Imagine that! Yes, life is indeed curious.

"Your rooms? Are these your rooms? I would have thought there would be...well, more sinister trophies of your conquests, for one thing," Zevran mumbles, trying a neat Antivan trick--pinching the bridge of the nose while shaking the head, forcing some blood back into the brain while all else refuses to operate properly. "You know the sort of trinket I mean--eyes of newts, horns of snails; hearts in jars; other, equally vital parts of the anatomy in jars; that sort of thing. It seems so plain for you, Morrigan, I am disappointed. But..." The more he keeps talking, the more he stalls for time, the more he might be able to flee out the window before Morrigan captures his vital anatomy to

[dissentive]

"Quit your incessant rambling, elf," Morrigan snaps unkindly, lifting herself up to lean on the back of her elbows so she could glare at the elf more properly before sitting up fully. "They are my rooms because I have woken up here," she began, but her voice trailed off as she further listened. "Why would I bring you here? I have little use for your organs. T'was clearly you who has done away with our other companions." She threw the covers away from her form, rising from the bed to hobble over to where she had seen her staff propped up against the wall in the far corner. Hobble, yes - she had received a harsh wound upon her leg during the scuffle at the landsmeet, and while Wynne had been so gracious as to (reluctantly) heal it, Morrigan still felt the phantom pains (which she thusly blamed the old woman for).

"Very well, if I am so inclined to believe you - you did not bring me here, and I certainly did not bring you here, then..." She paused. She was unused to having much say in the matters at hand - the Warden was the final

[elfroot]

Now this is something they can agree upon. It's rare that those of such...dissimilar constitutions manage to agree on anything at all, not without a voice of reason to intervene--which even Zevran will admit they do not have at present. It certainly isn't his voice that will be reasonable, no matter how much he rambles, though the words manage to keep the wolves at bay. Always the right tactic to use with Morrigan--prattling--for though it annoys her like a burr in her side, Zevran has found she much prefers to voice her annoyance than murder because of it.

For now, in any case.

"As always, I appreciate your line of thought almost as much as I appreciate...other lines." He smiles--his winning smile, though does he ever really win with it? Of that, he is less sure--and tests the floor, glancing around the room, taking full stock. Nothing out of the ordinary, aside from the imaginary jars and bottles. Altogether too common, and not the sort of place Zevran would have chosen for a tryst. Then again, Morrigan is not the sort of woman