Day 17, 23:21, in camp

Dear Diary,

Earlier I wrote about the great triumph in my search for the Urn of Sacred Ashes, the swift recovery of Arl Redcliffe, and my apotheosis to Champion status. As incredible as the day has been, this evening was more exciting still! The Arl offered us accommodations in the castle, and I would have taken them without hesitation, though Morrigan is extremely agitated within stone walls. I force my companions to endure the discomfort of nomad-style encampments for the sake of putting her at ease. Upon exiting Redcliffe proper and erecting the usual camp layout just outside the town, I retired immediately — as is my custom — to my tent, but the day seemed too perfect to be over already. Despite having fully prepared for a night in my cot, wrapped in thick blankets, I quickly found myself wandering the camp, mulling over the day's fantastic events, staring straight up at the stars or down at my own feet alternately and grinning like a fool in either case. As I was reliving once again the breathtaking scene I had experienced that morning, it seemed best to direct my gaze skyward rather than down to the dreary mud. This is but a way to retain some dignity while saying that I tripped over an obnoxious root and found myself sprawled at a man's feet in nothing but my nightgown. I knew I had been near a fire burning low, and I had assumed this site to be Morrigan the owl's perch that evening (does the sullen bitch never sleep?), so I was alarmed to say the least. Scrambling backwards and grasping half-wittedly at my absent armaments, I heard a sharp ring of laughter and knew at once that despite the armoured boots and heavy cloak, it was her indeed. Like a witch she emerged from the shadows (ah-ha! like a witch!), confronting me with her typical icy-velvet scorn. Oh, I wish those lips might drip sweet nothings in place of bitter barbs, but I digress. I became all of a sudden very embarrassed and self-conscious, darting to my feet and making as if to leave. Though my cheeks burned and I stuttered, I did want to visit with her. Alone, unlike during the day, and out of my tiresome position of leadership, I felt that I could get out of her more than hate and curt sarcasm. I was half-wrong, but I shall try until the day that — never mind. On with the story, indeed.

I followed her to the fire like a puppy (always so small in her presence) and she made a partial effort at small-talking me. I cringed as I began a conversation, once again, to do with her childhood. I should know better, what with the scoldings she so freely delivers, but hearing her raise her voice gives me shivers and makes my heart beat. It is a poor substitute for a kiss, but a good one for silence. Again, too much pining! As you would know if you had been keeping account, my dear, dear diary, I cannot seem to open the topic of my sinister, dark-haired spellweaver save to end on the topics of sultry scarves, soft skin or seductive lips, and we shan't have any of that tonight! Oh, no, I've broken my word already. Whoops. Morrigan is not even the topic of this entry!

Anyway, we sat on a bench by her fire (I believe she had Sten make it. He's much nicer to her than to me) and she entertained my shallow questions. Really, I asked each one only to force her to respond. I forget most of what she says, but the tone sticks with me. The image of her moist lips curling into words and smiles, the look of her hands as she fiddles with and inspects them. (Count the times I have mentioned her lips in the last twenty pages, I dare you. Better not lest you vomit.) I had remarked twice on how cold it was, especially in my sheer gown, and I was beginning to wonder (hope) if she might (please) invite me into her tent. She had hung up her cloak and removed her footwear as we spoke; she had been gathering some wood when I decorously sprawled before her like a duck. She kneaded her sore soles and bore her trademark percentage of bare skin, which I have privately remarked on within the pages of this volume more than once. My embarrassment forgotten, my heart now pounded with another passion. It has been two weeks that I've known her and she now loves me more than she did. I think. I can't be sure how much of it is her warming, or my imagination. Regardless, my initial feelings about her have become only stronger.

Our conversation ended better than before. I speculate she may have even enjoyed it! But despite my carefully lavished attention, my vulnerable and unguarded physical state (she's bigger than me, damnit! When will she get it in her head that she could hold me down with no trouble and still have a free hand?!), not to mention my measured, "accidental" physical contact, she eventually ended her story and could not be coaxed into another. I begrudgingly left before I became unwelcome. I shall not be waking up wrapped in the arms of an enchantress this morning, that's certain. Damn. Damn damn damn.

I returned to my tent immediately to put on some more clothes. Thinking more clearly, it's good I ran into Morrigan and not Allistair dressed like that, the poor fool. But I set back out, the wonders of the day wiped from my mind and replaced with a brooding temptress. It was in this state that I stumbled upon Leliana, singing softly to herself while laying upon a small hillock. She sat up when I came near and called for me to join her. I did and we began to joke; she revealed a wineskin she had been nursing and we shared the rest of it. Stars, wine and Orlesian women mix extremely well. After making some crude joke about Alistair and Hurlocks, she caught me off-guard by complimenting my hair quite suddenly. Thankfully the wine had done its work and I simply responded by smiling and leaning my body into her. She giggled and in that moment I noticed what a lovely voice she has. Strange, granted, but lovely. Endearing. I did not blurt my revelation aloud, thank the heavens, as the wine had not hit me quite so hard as it had her. We began to skirt and flirt then, both of us feigning innocence though it would be ridiculous to pretend it was anything but romantic. At this point I began to wish I had not stopped by to get dressed. Her fingers were playing up and down my arm as we teased and joked, and pretended to be serious until we could not contain ourselves. I have been set on that sulky Venus fly trap of a magician since I met her, not recognizing my brilliant prospects elsewhere. Well, the singer is no master of seduction, no catty, arrogant tease, but she is sweet like honey, tempting in a girlish way. I asked her whether she had taken vows of celibacy while at the Chantry and she revealed without hesitation that she never had. Like I said, there was no pretending the intent of our exchange, but pretend we did, all the same. The wine was hot on our breath, we were practically entangled on the sloping ground and I could see her features quite clearly, thanks to the exceptional night sky and nearly full moon. Our faces were inches apart as we danced with words. I had one hand holding her head, woven into and about her head of red hair, the other draped over her waist somewhat casually (you have to remember, we were not explicitly loving yet, only playing with the idea). I was seconds away from rolling on top of her and making my freshly exposed feelings undeniably clear when our dearest friend Allistair had to bumble in and ruin everything. Why was everyone out so late tonight, of all nights? Perhaps they're all feeling the same glow as me. Allistair invited himself to join us, though we both "were very tired" and "should be turning in for the night." I was hoping he would scurry along so we could continue our rendezvous here in my tent, but he did not grant us the chance. The blind idiot. I wrote this just upon returning for the night. Alistair's moved his tent to be set up opposite mine and I doubt I'll be able to go and fetch her back now. Something about the ground being lumpy? He seems to have a knack for being near to me at the least opportune times. Leliana hasn't had the opportunity to procure her own portable hovel yet and is currently intruding on Wynne's. I doubt the old preacher would approve of this game we're playing, and I certainly don't need her suspecting any frivolous attachments. I should at least maintain the illusion of professionalism while I'm attempting to bed every beautiful woman my quest seems bound to throw my way. I can only hope Leliana's heart is pounding like mine, hard enough to make my quill shake at a regular interval, but I must only assume she has passed out promptly under the wine's suggestion. I wonder what the morning will hold — best act as though it didn't happen. No doubt she'll be as shy and sweet as ever, perhaps even more so, and I wouldn't want to put her off. No, I think I should have another opportunity quite soon, complete with a second flask of wine and a conveniently-located tent. In fact, I shall make sure to be ready, even as soon as tomorrow night! And mind you, I still haven't given up on Morrigan. Morry. Mora. Nora? Riggy? No nicknames suffice: Morrigan. She remains the holy grail, my impossible ice queen of desire. Oh, Maker, can you imagine the fun we could have, the three of us? Why hadn't I thought of this sooner? I must conduct research. I must muse on the topic day and night, seeking it relentlessly. Could I live with myself if I did not? Both flowers at my disposal? I rush ahead of myself. Lili may be an easy catch (she is), but Morrigan remains tougher than elk steak. One step at a time, my dear.

I drifted off for just a second there. This, i think, is my cue to set down my wicked book and slide into sweet dreams. My bones are heavy and my eyes dropping of their own accord, so I must end here, exhausted and devoid of my characteristic wit. Goodnight, Morrigan. Hopefully you come to your senses and bed me by force come next camp. Leliana, you shall do no such thing as come to your senses, by any means. And now, to sleep.