Sometimes battle was grueling. Sometimes it was a cake walk. Sometimes battle didn't involve enemies, but instead your comrades, who you occasionally wished were your enemies. Just so you could have the satisfaction of beating their face in to shut them off and walk away feeling less stressed than before.
Which would be the feeling Zar and Wynne would be feeling, to accompany their varying looks of 'Maker, please, just shut them up.'
Zar was the current 'leader' of their little hero-ing group, the novice Grey Warden with a pension for sex talk and yet, would blush if it was joked back. He was smart enough when it came to interacting with other people, but being a Dalish made him more than wary of his human counterparts. Least, those he didn't sleep near in camp.
And Morrigan.
Morrigan scared the hell out of him.
Wynne was his surrogate mother figure, and had been since the Circle incident. She had all but taken him under her wing and, though she disliked his rather...randy conversations with their newest recruit, Zevran, she had rather taken a liking. They had similar personalities, intelligent, and they could hold long conversations about magics and philosophies that surprised Zar in their similarities. They were together a lot, mostly during camp down-time, talking or he would try and coax her to teach him so healing spells. Despite the rogues obvious lack of magical abilities.
But back to the story.
They were currently a few good feet ahead of their travelling group, occasionally passing distressed or annoyed glances at each other. Zevran and Alistair seemed to be in a stalemate of a conversation about Alistair's sexual performance a few nights ago 'with the warden,' as Zevran described Zar with liquid kindness. Alistair was readily denying this conversation was happening, and had taken to singing horrible traveling songs very loudly, which only lead to Zevran all but shouting indecent topics about Alistair's manhood and the willingness of the younger warden. 'The young warden.' Zar had decided Zevran had forgotten his name.
"...and for volume, trying arching- -"
"Iiiiii'm riding on a donkey, to the Dwarvish realm I aaaam- -"
"- -And if you angle up- -"
"-To buy a new forged longsword—"
"Please," Zar turned to Wynne minutely, tips of his ears a bright, violent red. She leaned to push some of his blond hair behind it.
"Please what, dear?"
"Please, is there not a spell to shut them up?"
"You know, my good friend Alistair, by the way you're so obviously trying to ignore me, one might assume you're embarrassed about your performance."
"Iiii can't hear yoooou. Lalalala~"
"I'm sorry." Wynne managed a tight smile. "I assure you, had I a spell in my repertoire of knowledge to silence them temporarily, I would."
Zar groaned, covering his face. "This is getting ridiculous."
"One might assume the Antivan is jealous," Wynne mused a bit louder, specifically for Zevran to hear. "With all his poking and prodding, perhaps he is not only attempting to 'help' Alistair, but also to convince dear Zar to come to tent with him."
Zar looked at her, horrified. "Pardon?"
"Ah, my dear Wynne." Zevran rolled his wrist nonchalantly. "I need no convincing of the young warden. I merely need to ask."
"I beg you're pardon?" Alistair stopped his singing.
"Ahaaa." The man in question rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Zevran, you'd give me more bugs than a swarm."
Zevran looked quite taken aback, but finally fell silent. Alistair pointed, with a triumphant 'ha!' and ran up to flank Zar's opposite side of Wynne.
"That is why I love you." He leaned, kissing the elf's cheek. Zar just smiled weakly, shaking his head.
"I'm just glad you too stopped that conversation."
"Does that make it true then, that Alistair jumps the gun—"
"I can't hear you Zevran, Lalala~"
"Oh, Maker...Not again."