More Secret Swooper, coming your way!
Here is my Secret Swooper present for omgdontlook! I apologize for the fact that I am cutting it close with the deadline, and hope that it contains enough Morrigan to make up for it. :-)
(Rated Totally Safe For Everyone's Enjoyment)
Let It Snow
It was the Warden's first snow, and Alistair thought they ought to celebrate.
Leliana agreed, and Zevran was always up for a party. Wynne, normally reserved, brought out a bottle of the Circle's best wine and smiled in fond remembrance of her own first snow. Sten was mystified, as usual, but the Warden assured him that the celebration was still part of their mission--"we must keep everyone's spirits up," she said, very serious, and while Sten thought obedience to the Qun should be enough to satisfy anyone, he was soon spotted standing near Leliana, learning to "lick the spoon" while she carefully prepared a batch of sugar cookies. Their voices were loud and laughing by the fire, snowflakes catching in their hair as it crunched underfoot, gaining inches by the hour. Wine was drunk, cheeks were rosy, and Morrigan thought it was all perfect nonsense.
She'd grown up in the Korcari Wilds, after all, where it snowed nearly six months out of the year and thus was no cause for celebration. Snow meant practicing her warmest forms, sitting under large piles of blankets while Flemeth (who was never cold) brewed potions over a too-hot fire, their perfumed smoke blowing into her eyes and leaving her in a sort of dream-haze that made her strongly suspect that large amounts of lyrium were involved. Occasionally her mother explained what the potions were for--this one to tell the future, that one to pass unseen by man or beast or spirit--but more often than not it seemed little more than an exercise in self-control, and Morrigan would spend hours willing herself to stay awake and avoid whatever experiments her mother might perform on her in her sleep.
"You're sure you don't want to celebrate?" Sereda asked, her round cheeks pinker than normal, her eyes sparkling with snowflakes caught on her eyelashes.
"No," Morrigan said, not bothering to look up from her grimoire. They hadn't yet been able to retrieve the actual Grimoire, and with the snow the roads would no doubt be impassable for months. So instead they headed for Orzammar, and Morrigan resigned herself to memorizing what resources she did have available.
Sereda was still standing there. Morrigan sighed, turned a page, and said, "No, I think not."
"There's wine," Sereda said. "Real wine, not that cheap stuff Alistair keeps saying is so good."
That the ex-templar had a penchant for disgustingly sweet dessert wines should have surprised no one, Morrigan thought, given the rest of his disgustingly sweet disposition--speaking to him was like being forced to imbibe idiocy, a draught she'd always found rather difficult to swallow. "No," she said again, "I fail to see the appeal in carousing when the temperatures are so low as to induce the rain to freeze."
"Well, we have to keep the blood moving somehow!" Sereda tried a smile. "You're really sure?"
By all accounts, dwarven noble society was a cutthroat, nasty, underhanded sort of world, ruled by honor and run by cunning; part of Morrigan was intrigued to visit the dwarven lands, and see how exactly such a stony place could have produced such a soft, smiling princess. She raised her eyebrow and said, "Must I repeat myself?"
The half-smile faltered further. "Very well," she said, turning to go. "This beats your blizzard spells any day."
Morrigan wanted to retort that the point of blizzard spells was not to create snow for enjoyment but for killing darkspawn, but Sereda had already returned to the other fire, where Dog greeted her with a ferocious shove into the snow. The Warden's laughter floated over to Morrigan's camp; she pulled a blanket tighter round her shoulders, and continued reading about the uses of dragon blood. Stains--probably from the aforementioned blood--obscured half the text, and what remained was of little use to her (why did her mother have such an obsession with eternal youth? What profit was there to an old--old--old woman, wanting to look young forever?), but she had twelve vials from defeating the false Andraste and she wanted to put them to good--
"Well, well, well, look who's skipping all the fun." Alistair plopped down next to her, landing heavily on the ground and tugging at her blanket. After a moment, his mind made a connection, and he finished, "Again."
"How astute an observation," she said, her eyes still on the page, suppressing a shiver as the cold air snaked onto her skin. "Will your genius never cease to astound me."
"Now, now, I have to confess--I am not thinking straight." Out of the corner of her eye she saw his arm flailing, his finger trying to point at something. "That accursed assassin Sereda likes so much has put something in my drink."
Alternatively, the man simply couldn't hold his liquor; judging by the faintness of the alcohol on his breath, she suspected it was the latter. "I fail to see how this concerns me," she said, which was a mistake. Engaging him in conversation was always a mistake.
"Well, it concerns you," he said, slurring his words a little, "because you see, we were playing a game, of who could throw a stick closer to a tree, and you see, I threw my stick, you see--"
"I did not see," she said. "Do you have a point?"
"I threw it backwards," he said, sounding rather proud of this achievement, "and so I lost a bet."
Her hands tightened on her book, and she barely raised her eyes enough to look over the top of the pages; Zevran was standing next to Sereda, leaning as though against a wall but using the dwarf's head as a prop, the pair of them watching them intently. She thought about casting a spell right then and there to teach everyone a lesson, but on the other hand her current situation did offer an opportunity to humiliate Alistair in a spectacular fashion, and that was a temptation she could never quite resist.
"Did you," she said, her voice smooth as a bolt of silk.
"I did indeed," he said, "and so now here I am! Talking to you." He managed to laden the pronoun with more disgust and loathing than she would have thought possible. "Punishment enough, don't you think?"
"For once we are in agreement," she said. "Surely by now you have fulfilled the requirements of your wager and could--"
"I'm afraid not," he said, sighing heavily, and producing from his back pocket a twig, which he dangled over her head. "Do you know what this is?"
Morrigan raised her eyes past his face, failing to notice that his expression was slack and his eyes sharp, to inspect the little bit of greenery spelling her doom. "Aye," she said. "'Tis--"
"Mistletoe," he said, his voice full of even more disgust and loathing.
"Aye," she said. "'Tis a parasite that grows into the very heart of a tree and consumes it. Its berries are poisonous. It has few uses."
"Wow," he said after a moment. "I never realized how much you and it had in common."
She set down the book and crossed her arms and said, "If you do not find it within your meager capabilities to get to the point, and soon, I will--"
He kissed her.
Or rather, he tried to; the trials of kissing her and keeping the mistletoe above their heads proved to be too much, and his lips landed somewhere near her nose, missing hers entirely. Inwardly she chided herself for her surprise, as outwardly she was frozen, her eyes narrowed as he drew away and winced. "That was terrible," he said. "Wow. I mean that, that was truly bad. I'm sorry."
"Indeed," she said, watching as he rubbed his jaw, his cheeks turning redder. "Truly, I have never met someone as dedicated to failure as you."
The glare he threw at her was sudden and surprised and--hurt? The man would never cease to surprise her. "Yes, well, sorry to have bothered you," he said, bracing himself on the ground with one hand as the other stuffed the mistletoe into his pocket. "Me and my failure will just go--"
"Oh, stop," she said, reaching out and grasping his arm. He started and she rolled her eyes at his confused look, her other hand already reaching for his cheek. "Properly this time, if you don't mind."
"I don't know if--"
His mouth was still moving when she kissed him, and even that was not enough to shut him up effectively, as he tried talking around her lips until she slid her tongue between his and he went completely still. She used this as an opportunity to climb into his lap and wrap her arms around his shoulders and kiss him; his arms went around her waist, his hands tentative on her back, and after a moment he tilted his head and responded, clumsily, which she took as her cue to curl her fingers in his hair while her other hand reached behind him. It was increasingly difficult to concentrate on her goal--he was enthusiastic, if inexpert--but she finally achieved it, and broke the kiss.
They were both flushed and breathing heavily, which rather ruined the cool facade she'd hoped for, and his eyes were wide and staring into hers and for the briefest moment she wondered, and regretted what she was about to do.
Then she stuffed a snowball down the back of his shirt, and his scream made it all worthwhile.
She leapt off his lap as his freakishly high-pitched noises echoed throughout the clearing. She glanced and saw the rest of the party in a confused knot, startled out of their positions of intent observation; she crossed her arms and smirked as Alistair flew to his feet, dancing back and forth as he tried to shake the snow from his shirt. "You--you--"
"Yes?" she said, still smiling. This was much more entertaining than the grimoire had been.
He finally landed on both feet and glared at her, and she was surprised to see in his eyes--but that was a matter for another day. "I," he said, breathing hard and pointing a trembling finger in her direction, "am going to get you."
She raised an eyebrow. "Catch me if you can," she said, and threw another snowball at his face before taking off at a run.
That Zevran tripped her with a snowball of his own, and Sereda mastered the fine art of making and throwing snowballs faster than anyone thought fair, was a matter of public record; that Alistair's eyes were warm, and his touch gentle, was a matter Morrigan kept to herself, a warm memory amidst the chill of falling snow.
(Rated Totally Safe For Everyone's Enjoyment)
Let It Snow
It was the Warden's first snow, and Alistair thought they ought to celebrate.
Leliana agreed, and Zevran was always up for a party. Wynne, normally reserved, brought out a bottle of the Circle's best wine and smiled in fond remembrance of her own first snow. Sten was mystified, as usual, but the Warden assured him that the celebration was still part of their mission--"we must keep everyone's spirits up," she said, very serious, and while Sten thought obedience to the Qun should be enough to satisfy anyone, he was soon spotted standing near Leliana, learning to "lick the spoon" while she carefully prepared a batch of sugar cookies. Their voices were loud and laughing by the fire, snowflakes catching in their hair as it crunched underfoot, gaining inches by the hour. Wine was drunk, cheeks were rosy, and Morrigan thought it was all perfect nonsense.
She'd grown up in the Korcari Wilds, after all, where it snowed nearly six months out of the year and thus was no cause for celebration. Snow meant practicing her warmest forms, sitting under large piles of blankets while Flemeth (who was never cold) brewed potions over a too-hot fire, their perfumed smoke blowing into her eyes and leaving her in a sort of dream-haze that made her strongly suspect that large amounts of lyrium were involved. Occasionally her mother explained what the potions were for--this one to tell the future, that one to pass unseen by man or beast or spirit--but more often than not it seemed little more than an exercise in self-control, and Morrigan would spend hours willing herself to stay awake and avoid whatever experiments her mother might perform on her in her sleep.
"You're sure you don't want to celebrate?" Sereda asked, her round cheeks pinker than normal, her eyes sparkling with snowflakes caught on her eyelashes.
"No," Morrigan said, not bothering to look up from her grimoire. They hadn't yet been able to retrieve the actual Grimoire, and with the snow the roads would no doubt be impassable for months. So instead they headed for Orzammar, and Morrigan resigned herself to memorizing what resources she did have available.
Sereda was still standing there. Morrigan sighed, turned a page, and said, "No, I think not."
"There's wine," Sereda said. "Real wine, not that cheap stuff Alistair keeps saying is so good."
That the ex-templar had a penchant for disgustingly sweet dessert wines should have surprised no one, Morrigan thought, given the rest of his disgustingly sweet disposition--speaking to him was like being forced to imbibe idiocy, a draught she'd always found rather difficult to swallow. "No," she said again, "I fail to see the appeal in carousing when the temperatures are so low as to induce the rain to freeze."
"Well, we have to keep the blood moving somehow!" Sereda tried a smile. "You're really sure?"
By all accounts, dwarven noble society was a cutthroat, nasty, underhanded sort of world, ruled by honor and run by cunning; part of Morrigan was intrigued to visit the dwarven lands, and see how exactly such a stony place could have produced such a soft, smiling princess. She raised her eyebrow and said, "Must I repeat myself?"
The half-smile faltered further. "Very well," she said, turning to go. "This beats your blizzard spells any day."
Morrigan wanted to retort that the point of blizzard spells was not to create snow for enjoyment but for killing darkspawn, but Sereda had already returned to the other fire, where Dog greeted her with a ferocious shove into the snow. The Warden's laughter floated over to Morrigan's camp; she pulled a blanket tighter round her shoulders, and continued reading about the uses of dragon blood. Stains--probably from the aforementioned blood--obscured half the text, and what remained was of little use to her (why did her mother have such an obsession with eternal youth? What profit was there to an old--old--old woman, wanting to look young forever?), but she had twelve vials from defeating the false Andraste and she wanted to put them to good--
"Well, well, well, look who's skipping all the fun." Alistair plopped down next to her, landing heavily on the ground and tugging at her blanket. After a moment, his mind made a connection, and he finished, "Again."
"How astute an observation," she said, her eyes still on the page, suppressing a shiver as the cold air snaked onto her skin. "Will your genius never cease to astound me."
"Now, now, I have to confess--I am not thinking straight." Out of the corner of her eye she saw his arm flailing, his finger trying to point at something. "That accursed assassin Sereda likes so much has put something in my drink."
Alternatively, the man simply couldn't hold his liquor; judging by the faintness of the alcohol on his breath, she suspected it was the latter. "I fail to see how this concerns me," she said, which was a mistake. Engaging him in conversation was always a mistake.
"Well, it concerns you," he said, slurring his words a little, "because you see, we were playing a game, of who could throw a stick closer to a tree, and you see, I threw my stick, you see--"
"I did not see," she said. "Do you have a point?"
"I threw it backwards," he said, sounding rather proud of this achievement, "and so I lost a bet."
Her hands tightened on her book, and she barely raised her eyes enough to look over the top of the pages; Zevran was standing next to Sereda, leaning as though against a wall but using the dwarf's head as a prop, the pair of them watching them intently. She thought about casting a spell right then and there to teach everyone a lesson, but on the other hand her current situation did offer an opportunity to humiliate Alistair in a spectacular fashion, and that was a temptation she could never quite resist.
"Did you," she said, her voice smooth as a bolt of silk.
"I did indeed," he said, "and so now here I am! Talking to you." He managed to laden the pronoun with more disgust and loathing than she would have thought possible. "Punishment enough, don't you think?"
"For once we are in agreement," she said. "Surely by now you have fulfilled the requirements of your wager and could--"
"I'm afraid not," he said, sighing heavily, and producing from his back pocket a twig, which he dangled over her head. "Do you know what this is?"
Morrigan raised her eyes past his face, failing to notice that his expression was slack and his eyes sharp, to inspect the little bit of greenery spelling her doom. "Aye," she said. "'Tis--"
"Mistletoe," he said, his voice full of even more disgust and loathing.
"Aye," she said. "'Tis a parasite that grows into the very heart of a tree and consumes it. Its berries are poisonous. It has few uses."
"Wow," he said after a moment. "I never realized how much you and it had in common."
She set down the book and crossed her arms and said, "If you do not find it within your meager capabilities to get to the point, and soon, I will--"
He kissed her.
Or rather, he tried to; the trials of kissing her and keeping the mistletoe above their heads proved to be too much, and his lips landed somewhere near her nose, missing hers entirely. Inwardly she chided herself for her surprise, as outwardly she was frozen, her eyes narrowed as he drew away and winced. "That was terrible," he said. "Wow. I mean that, that was truly bad. I'm sorry."
"Indeed," she said, watching as he rubbed his jaw, his cheeks turning redder. "Truly, I have never met someone as dedicated to failure as you."
The glare he threw at her was sudden and surprised and--hurt? The man would never cease to surprise her. "Yes, well, sorry to have bothered you," he said, bracing himself on the ground with one hand as the other stuffed the mistletoe into his pocket. "Me and my failure will just go--"
"Oh, stop," she said, reaching out and grasping his arm. He started and she rolled her eyes at his confused look, her other hand already reaching for his cheek. "Properly this time, if you don't mind."
"I don't know if--"
His mouth was still moving when she kissed him, and even that was not enough to shut him up effectively, as he tried talking around her lips until she slid her tongue between his and he went completely still. She used this as an opportunity to climb into his lap and wrap her arms around his shoulders and kiss him; his arms went around her waist, his hands tentative on her back, and after a moment he tilted his head and responded, clumsily, which she took as her cue to curl her fingers in his hair while her other hand reached behind him. It was increasingly difficult to concentrate on her goal--he was enthusiastic, if inexpert--but she finally achieved it, and broke the kiss.
They were both flushed and breathing heavily, which rather ruined the cool facade she'd hoped for, and his eyes were wide and staring into hers and for the briefest moment she wondered, and regretted what she was about to do.
Then she stuffed a snowball down the back of his shirt, and his scream made it all worthwhile.
She leapt off his lap as his freakishly high-pitched noises echoed throughout the clearing. She glanced and saw the rest of the party in a confused knot, startled out of their positions of intent observation; she crossed her arms and smirked as Alistair flew to his feet, dancing back and forth as he tried to shake the snow from his shirt. "You--you--"
"Yes?" she said, still smiling. This was much more entertaining than the grimoire had been.
He finally landed on both feet and glared at her, and she was surprised to see in his eyes--but that was a matter for another day. "I," he said, breathing hard and pointing a trembling finger in her direction, "am going to get you."
She raised an eyebrow. "Catch me if you can," she said, and threw another snowball at his face before taking off at a run.
That Zevran tripped her with a snowball of his own, and Sereda mastered the fine art of making and throwing snowballs faster than anyone thought fair, was a matter of public record; that Alistair's eyes were warm, and his touch gentle, was a matter Morrigan kept to herself, a warm memory amidst the chill of falling snow.