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 ways, so it was not she who had made him lose his own mind. Yet the fact that her surroundings had changed was becoming more and more pressing, beyond the presence of Zevran - though perhaps it was he that had brought her here - and thus she opened her eyes slowly left and then right, staring curiously at the wooden boards encompassing the wall. Her eyes slid to the corners of her eyes, and slowly she rolled over onto her back, hand reaching for her staff - but not finding by her side. Alarmed, she immediately sought out the magic at the recesses of her mind to pull at a moment's notice, before finally settling her eyes upon Zevran.

"T'would be wise to speak quickly, elf, as to why you are in my rooms and... where we are," she said haltingly, nose wrinkling slightly at the unfamiliar smells (all rather clean, at that) though her eyes narrowed dangerously enough.

Morrigan was not amused. Perhaps Zevran had finally decided to use his assassination abilities upon the Warden (with Leliana and Alistair foolishly standing in the way as they are often want to do, and perhaps Sten had simply left with little mind for the principle of loyalties once the qunari's cause for freedom was dead, and as for the dwarf... well, he could have just as easily been rolled down a hill for all Morrigan knew or cared about) - though that hardly explained their predicament, nor why the elf was perched so casually upon the second bed in the room as opposed to, rather, assassinating. She studied Zevran carefully, ice forming at the very tips of her fingers, debating the risk of waiting for a reply versus simply encasing the assassin in ice and shattering him thus forth.

She entitled her still sleep grogged mind to be the only reason she waited for a response.

[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 start a jar collection. And where is the window, anyway? Ah yes: right there. "If I am in your room, I cannot imagine sneaking past your keen senses, and thus I am forced to believe it was you who invited me here. Terrifying thought, no?"

[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 voice of their group, and he was hardly the sort to pause for recollection. Something she admired, honestly. "Then perhaps we should find the Warden and regain our bearings." There was, of course, the possibility that this was the work of a demon, but it did not feel as so - there was no heavy, sluggish movement about the air. T'was all rather clean and crisp to her tongue, nothing she could identify. That, indeed, was more disconcerting than if it was a demon.

[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 Zevran would have chosen for a tryst. As fun as that romp would be, well...

Never piss where you sleep, as they say. "I take your point, in any case. Let us hope our dear warden is close at hand; I rather think we'd be at one another's throats without him, yes?"

[dissentive]

Morrigan was thoroughly unimpressed by his words, and further so by his smile. She's hardly the type to be so easily persuaded by a flash of teeth, now as much as ever. "Tell me something I do not know," she deadpanned in response to both comments, eyes half lidded as she gazed at the elf before she, too, took a gander at her surroundings - more importantly, the heavy oak door. Using her staff casually as a walking stick, though more importantly to have it unsheathed in case something was behind said door, she strode confidently enough towards it. She rested her hand on the warm wood and, sensing nothing of magical integrity, opened it easily enough with a sharp twist of the door knob--

Only for the door to knock directly into a servant girl carrying a large pile of sheets in her arms - surely whisking down the hallway to her next task, and surely in Morrigan's way. Harmless enough, however certainly an obstacle to step over whilst the girl was busy gathering her dropped linens and apologizing profusely. T'was of little concern to Morrigan, for the girl had already apologized - but she paused, after she had completed stepping over the servant, to turn on her heel and stare down at her. The manner that she wore her hair was certainly a far cry from the Ferelden fashion. "Girl," Morrigan began, one hand placed lightly on her hip as the other curled around her staff. "'Tis an unfamiliar place. We are still in Ferelden, are we not?"

The blank look the servant girl gave her was enough for Morrigan to simply write her off as, perhaps, mentally slow - in such as the likes of Alistair, even. Or the warden's dog. "No, ma'am," the girl stammered out just before Morrigan could lose her interest. "This is Sleepywoods."

Morrigan glanced at Zevran, then. He was more varied in his travels, perhaps he knew of such a place. She, on the other hand, preferred the woods that were not so sleepy.

[elfroot]

"Sleepywoods! At least even you must admit, Morrigan, that is a most informative name. Though it is not one with which I am familiar. It sounds Ferelden, does it not?"

It's his turn to stand, stretching out his legs, remaining relaxed, or at least maintaining the appearance of relaxation. In truth, he's far from it. Something does not feel right; so many things do not feel right. If he spent the night with Morrigan, he only wishes he might be able to remember it, especially if he is to die--and after all, most spiders do devour their mates, having no emotional attachment to them past the single moment. His prospects do not look promising. Especially without the Warden.

The Warden...

He shrugs, pulling aside a curtain and glancing down into the street below. "Yes; it most certainly looks like Ferelden. But as we both know, appearances can be most deceiving. I wonder what manner of sorcery this is. Some new threat with which we must contend? How pleasant for us all."

[dissentive]

The servant was quick to make herself useless through skittering away as soon as the opportunity presented itself. Morrigan was not one to go chasing after her, however, so let her do as she pleased, focusing once more on the elf. "'Tis not a sorcery I have ever felt," she drawled slowly, taking her time to feel the surroundings. Everything was quiet in the air, as if magic were muted in some manner. The simplest of hex spells had become complicated and jumbled on her tongue, difficult to concentrate on. That in itself was alarming, the separation of them from the rest of the group not withstanding. However, surely, were they with the others, they would have made themselves known - Oghren would have been heard for miles, and the Warden would have immediately gone looking (foolishly, of course, without immediate concern for his surroundings).

One thing, however, Morrigan was certain of. "It does not feel like the Fade," she said shortly. The air did not struggle against every fiber of her being nor pull at her mind. All she was left with was confusion. "'Tis no sloth demon. Or perhaps 'tis such a strong one that even I cannot tell, though that is unlikely." Clearly. No demon could best her.

"We'll find no answers staying here," she continued at last, canting her head to the right. "Choose to accompany me, or we will part ways here - it matters little."

[elfroot]

"The Fade? Funny; I barely thought of that as an option. Isn't one time enough?"

It would be hard, in any case, to have a nightmare about such a place--usually, Zevran's nightmares are restricted to what he has already experienced. He's not one to linger over the concept of the unknown, nor one to bite his nails in anticipation of a terrible battle with a great monster known as the Archdemon. He leaves that to the Wardens. They do it enough for everyone, if the sounds they make in their sleep are anything to judge by.

With a soft sound, he shakes his head, pulling himself away from the window. "Well then, if it is not magic, then it must be real, mustn't it? And if that is so, we have a distinct advantage--or rather, I should say, you have a distinct advantage, my sweet, gentle Morrigan, loving and tender as you are, capable of knocking a man over with a single glance. Now we must simply... ah. What is this?"

On his way to the door--very unfortunate to find yourself trapped in an unfamiliar room, surrounded by unfamiliar people; he's almost of the mind to scramble out the window, but why do so when there are perfectly good stairs to use?--he notices, at last, the strange little device on the bedside table, like nothing he's ever seen before. "Most curious."

He doesn't touch it.

[dissentive]

"I hardly think a demon has much care for how many times he forces our souls into the Fade," Morrigan replied dryly, watching as Zevran moved about the room. She shifted the weight on her legs slightly, leaning against the thickness of her staff briefly before straightening and sheathing the wood altogether. She perked at Zevran's notice of the device, an eyebrow raising.

"Looks utmost useless," she prompted, tilting her chin upwards as she studied the small... thing from afar. "Is it of any importance? Perchance, you should open it." The elf, at least, was quick-footed enough to avoid any injury should it be a trap. Yet it was so... unimpressive that she doubted even that.

[elfroot]

But they defeated that demon. Didn't they? Now, perhaps, it's less certain whether or not they did--and indeed, so many things could be termed just an illusion--but Zevran thinks he'd remember an important detail like that one. And usually, their leader is quite apt when it comes to dealing with trouble...permanently.

"If it is a trap," he murmurs, spreading his fingers out, "then let us hope I am swift-fingered enough not to lose any fingers, yes? Though I already know your answer--Elf, that is of no consequence to me; what care I for your fingers, on or off? No need to speak; I already know you so well."

With a grin, he passes his hand above the device, around it, then gently picks it up, turning it over.

No traps, no snaps, no finger-biting--so far, so good. "It is surprisingly light," he explains. "I think it is some manner of box."

[righteous]

Alistair had been running around Sleepywoods during this time, trying to get as much information as he could on how to get back. He was, well, confused and very, very worried.

He was almost positive they left the Tower after defeating the Sloth Demon. That they managed to save Connor with no problems and were off to get the Sacred Ashes. Could it have really all been a trick? Was he still stuck in the Fade? This all felt too real, but then...so did the Fade. He gulped and sat down, staring at the little device he had found near the bed he woke up in; it wasn't easy to ignore it for all it's beeping. Alistair could only think of one thing more annoying than this...

It took him quite some time to figure the thing out; he'd read the manual a few times but still didn't quite understand (something about it being sensitive? It might as well be written in a foreign language!). But he managed, somehow, to get it working - much to his surprise - and started to speak into it, holding it close to his face just to make sure.

Yes, because this didn't look or feel strange at all.

[dissentive]

"A box?" Morrigan echoed, reentering the room to loom over Zevran's shoulder, looking curiously at the object. "Well," she said frankly. "'Tis a curious box." A box that was no trap, it seemed - though it hadn't hurt to be careful, there was no need to think of the unimpressive object as an enemy.

"Open it," she prompted then. "Fear not, I still have a few health poultices should the box decide to bite you." Zevran was only momentarily hesitant - his slim fingers soon pulled open the lid of the device, propping it open by its hinge.

"HELLOOOOOO! CAAAAN YOOOU HEEEEAR MEEE!?" screamed the device in Alistair's voice - Morrigan could not suppress her shout of surprise, jumping back.

[elfroot]

Such a very little box, he was going to say, but so often the very small can cause oh-so-much trouble. In this instance? Perhaps a little too much trouble.

"Ahhh, that voice. Those dulcet tones... What a pleasant surprise this is! Is there not some fable of old that reminds you of this moment, Morrigan? Opening something quite unfamiliar, unleashing hideous monstrosities upon the world..." Holding the device slightly farther away from him is a start--he manages not to toss it away, though barely, because it would not do to break it before they have had a chance to observe its secrets.

"Do you wish to reply to him, or shall I--why am I even asking?" He turns back to the device. Knowing how to use it? Fah; that is for lesser assassins. Here, this appears to be a useful button. It is colorful. "My dear Alistair, such a pleasure to hear you are in high spirits! And how reassuring it is to be greeted with the strong, calm voice of a Grey Warden."

[righteous]

Alistair had been talking to the box for quite sometime, at least it felt like he was talking to a box with an identity issue. It didn't quite hit him that he really was speaking to people until he heard a familiar voice singing through.

He knew they shouldn't have let that assassin join them. He frowned and, not thinking straight decided it would be good to play the blaming game. "You! You slipped one of your...poisons in my drink didn't you?"

It didn't make any sense but clearly Alistair wasn't thinking things through, he was just wanting an easy answer to all this.

[dissentive]

Morrigan gave an excessive roll of her eyes. Though the device itself was strange, it seemed to somehow promote communication. However, it at least meant Alistair was nearby - at least, in the same predicament as they were, if not so close. Whether or not this was a good thing was yet to be determined, but if this Grey Warden was present, then perhaps the other was as well. She shifted to sit on the edge of her bed, resting her staff across her knees. Thus far, they knew only of themselves and Alistair. 'Twas in most ways rather unfortunate.

She continued to be the bystanding listener, however, sharp eyes trained on the object in Zevran's grip.

[elfroot]

If they could use this thing to speak to Alistair, then perhaps...

Zevran shook his head. There were more pressing matters, at the current time, ones to which they must attend. For better or ill, they had found Alistair. And, true to form, he was blaming Zevran. Why did one always assume hallucinations were the work of an assassin's poisons?

"Please, Alistair, please," he replied. He seemed to have something resembling a basic understanding of how this thing worked now--magically, obviously; a communication spell of some sort, and no doubt Morrigan would be able to explain it, were she so inclined. "If I had slipped one of my poisons into your drink, then you would wake up in a far stranger place than this. By which I mean, you would not wake up at all, but most certainly not with me."

Zevran glanced at Morrigan then, brow lifted. Ah, sweet Alistair. "Well! Now that that little matter is settled... Are you sure you aren't merely still inebriated from standing too close to Oghren? I know you haven't much experience with anything stronger than water, and such things take time adjusting to..."