She is not a short woman, but it's still clear he's taller than her. Currently, her child (if one could call it a child) is elsewhere. She's drinking something foul-smelling and sitting on a bar stool not too far from the fireplace, dressed as usual.
She's watching him, though, something like a spider watches anything else around it.
Her gaze is something it takes him a few moments to register. When he does, it's with a slight frown, not out of any hostility, but rather mild curiosity. (Anything, he thinks, to take his mind off the ballet for even a single moment.) Her garb is hardly typical (nor does it leave too much to the imagination), a stark contrast to the suit he's wearing, his tie loose around his neck.
He doesn't move from where he is, or yet bother straightening up, but he does offer her a nod in greeting.
It's hard to say how Morrigan might feel about ballet. On the one hand, there is the immense control that she'd likely admire. Then again, she might simply find it boring.
His nod is returned. While he mgiht be dressed typically for someone from his sort of world, most people from hers would find it quite queer. She slides off of the stool gracefully and then moves a bit closer, testing the waters.
For Thomas, first impressions have always included assessing the way a person moves - how much control they have over their body. His eyes flick up and down her frame once as she stands up, and he shifts now, pulling himself into a slightly more upright position, although he keeps his feet on the ottoman. (The program slides off of his chest and next to him on the armchair; he doesn't pay it any mind.)
Everything that she does has a purpose, and she doesn't make any efforts to hide that side of her. She might try to hide her motives, but that is another thing entirely.
"I would not sleep down here, were I you." Then again, perhaps she trusts people less easily - but falling asleep in a strange place unguarded is never a good idea.
"Appearance to the contrary, I don't plan on it," he says, cocking his head to one side. He is not, fortunately, quite at the point where crashing in the middle of a magic bar seems like a good idea. If he's to stay here through the night (and he isn't sure, yet, if he means to), Bar has already provided him with a key to one of the rooms upstairs.
"Indeed?" Her arched brow suggests she does not entirely believe him, but not everyone is so wont to fall asleep in random nooks and crannies as Alistair.
"Nights often are," Morrigan states mildly, taking another drink of her foul-smelling tea. It is a brew she developed a taste for living with her mother.
"Nothing that you would be interested in, I would think. It involves several herbs that don't even exist in most of the other worlds as far as I can tell. And it is ... an acquired taste." It has its benefits, of course.
She waves her hand toward the wine. "As anything else is. What is it that labors your evening so?" He does not look like the type who is a warrior, so it must be some other sort of anguish that plagues his evening.
(He has the frame to say that he did dance, in his younger years; he can still work with his dancers, but he isn't onstage. One week off of the barre means three weeks to get that loss back, and he's already lost a lot of time.)
"Directed and choreographed it," he answers. "So, involved in it."
She's watching him, though, something like a spider watches anything else around it.
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He doesn't move from where he is, or yet bother straightening up, but he does offer her a nod in greeting.
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His nod is returned. While he mgiht be dressed typically for someone from his sort of world, most people from hers would find it quite queer. She slides off of the stool gracefully and then moves a bit closer, testing the waters.
"Good evening."
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"Evening."
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"I would not sleep down here, were I you." Then again, perhaps she trusts people less easily - but falling asleep in a strange place unguarded is never a good idea.
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"You could have fooled me."
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Then, by way of explanation: "It's been a long night."
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"Nights often are," Morrigan states mildly, taking another drink of her foul-smelling tea. It is a brew she developed a taste for living with her mother.
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Still, he nods at the cup in her hands.
"What are you taking?"
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She waves her hand toward the wine. "As anything else is. What is it that labors your evening so?" He does not look like the type who is a warrior, so it must be some other sort of anguish that plagues his evening.
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At her question, he glances about himself for the previously discarded program and plucks it up, turning it so that the cover's facing her.
"Opening night."
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"Theatre." Not something that she's very familiar with, since she didn't spend much time in the cities outside of her work with the Grey Wardens.
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"Not a big thing for you, on the other side?" He accompanies the question with a nod at the door.
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Then again, she is sure there are a great many things in her world that he hasn't heard of. Perhaps not, but some things.
Her gaze flicks to the door, just to make sure that it's still there.
"And you were ... in this ballet?" She doesn't sound sure of that sort. He doesn't look much like a performer.
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"Directed and choreographed it," he answers. "So, involved in it."
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