My first Dragon Age story. Just a short musing on a Morrigan/FemWarden friendship and a connection to the celtic mythology behind Morrigan's name.
Sparks flew from metal hitting metal. Blood stained the ground, pouring from the many dead and injured. Red and black pooled together, forming puddles of gore. Another darkspawn met it's fate by the swing of the Warden's sword. The Grey Warden lifted her head and stared at the oncoming horde, challenging them. Battle was not something the godless beasts were going to turn and run from. Yet, the beasts would have been better off turning and running, for the Warden and her team were constantly outnumbered, and constantly victorious against all odds. The Warden smiled cruelly at the Hurlock that raced for her. She pivoted out of the way of the monster's charge, and slashed it with dagger and sword as she spun. The creature fell face-first to the ground, unmoving, while the Warden raced forward without missing a step.
High above the grisly scene in the tops of the tree, sat a lone, black crow. The bird watched the battle with intent, keeping a sharp eye on the young Warden. The crow soared over the battlefield, keeping up with the group. Darkspawn littered the ground, yet the Warden and her companions had hardly a scratch. Landing in a tree ahead, the crow watched as an Alpha Hurlock raced at the Warden. She blocked his mighty swing, and while still holding back his axe with the sword, she plunged her dagger deep into his chest. The Alpha slumped to the ground, and the Warden whipped off her blades before sheathing them. She looked up and saw the black bird watching her. She stared at the crow for a long time. The bird met her gaze, and did not fly off or hop about as most birds did. A knowing smile crept onto the Warden's face, and she gave a small nod to the bird before turning to head back to camp.
That night, the Warden watched the apostate witch with an idle smirk. The yellow eyes of the witch caught the Warden's and they narrowed,
"Do you see something of interest, Warden?" She asked, the usual barbs in her voice. The Warden shook her head softly,
"What kind of feather's are those?" She motioned to the witch's clothed shoulder.
"'Tis hardly important." She scoffed, "Raven or crow, I forget." The Warden nodded,
"I'm sorry I've been leaving you in camp, Morrigan." She said plainly, "Although, it has felt like you are still there." She mused. A foreign softness overcame the witch's golden eyes as her features fell from their harsh glare. In a rare moment of sincerity the witch smiled ever so slightly.
"I am always there, my friend, watching over you."
Ages from then, many would speak of the Celtic legend, Morrigan. Tales would tell of a phantom queen who watched over great battles in the form of a raven, influencing its outcome. Few would remember the origin of this legend. None would speak of the old Grey Warden and the shapeshifter who would watch over every battle, guarding her only friend from harm.