The air stank of rot. Even with the snow covering most of the bodies, aside from the ones they had just made, the smell seemed to permeate the air like an oppressive wave hellbent on singeing the very hair from their noses. The burned out remains of an once proud fort stared at them, surrounded them, familiar and alien at the same time. No bustling soldiers patrolled here any longer; only the dead and the darkspawn held vigil here.
The latter seemed far more numerous, if one was to judge by smell alone. Even the dead did not stink as the darkspawn taint did. It seeped into everything: soaking into clothing, dampening the air, blackening the very ground beneath their feet, sliding into their pores, a silent invader. The stench was not so easily rid of either, a mere bath would wash away the stains but the stench would remain, lodged like a splinter in the skin; only time would wash it away.
If not for the scented rags Leliana had helpfully provided before they arrived at Ostagar, Catherine was certain she would have wretched up her breakfast. The smell had found its way to her stomach, settling right on top of her breakfast, and the blood sausage seemed ready to gain its freedom again, crawling its way back up her throat at the worst times.
Chancing an unhindered breath, Catherine nudged the fur lined scarf around the lower half of her face down to her chin and inhaled; snowflakes caught in her nostrils, carrying with them a scent of charred meat. She tried not the shudder at the thought of just what(or who)could be burning.
"'Tis the king," a voice-sensual, impatient, seething with annoyance-interrupted her internal musing, giving the answer she would not admit to herself. "I daresay I expected such a royal man to smell better." Morrigan clicked her tongue beneath her scarf, golden eyes regarding the Warden beside her with a deadpan expression.
Catherine made an uncommunicative sound and shook her head; they were not having this discussion again. "Morrigan," she began dryly.
"Oh, save your bleating." The witch made an irritated gesture with her hands and rolled her eyes, effectively cutting off whatever comment Catherine had brewing. "I've enough sense to keep that to myself. It won't do if our dear friend," the words were laced with enough venom to make even Catherine flinch, "Alistair decided to fall on his sword. Again."
An argument hung on Catherine's tongue, one little wiggle away from spilling out. Unlike with her breakfast, which at this point seemed as though it were pressing against her esophagus, Catherine had gained better control of her mouth and promptly clamped it shut, preferring not to fight with the witch if it were at all possible. The flaming sword on her armor was all the reason Morrigan needed to start a fight and the ex-Templar thought better of inciting her ire by pointing out the obvious.
Offering an one shouldered shrug in return for the oral flaying, Catherine hosted Starfang on her shoulder and cracked her head toward their camp. "I'm freezing my tits off." She didn't wait for a reply, knowing Morrigan would slink off to her own fire; far away enough for her to have privacy but within sight.
The witch tsked and swung her staff around to clear off the snow that had collected along the shaft from the fresh snowfall that had started the second their watch began. Whether or not their watch was up, Morrigan was done and she would be burrowing into her bear belt bed roll soon enough. As long as Alistair was still off mourning that fool king, Morrigan had no doubt she'd get some food in her belly before she went to bed. The Chantry wench was not half bad at cooking but the love sick look in her eyes when Catherine walked by was enough to set the witch's teeth on edge.
The Templar turned Grey Warden was not bad to look upon by any accounts, certainly. A wave of spun gold, just on the verge of being white, sat atop her head, lazy strands clinging to her neck and high cheek bones. What strands could be caught were braided and strung up in a lazy pony tail, hanging low on her skull, leather thong one move away from breaking free and releasing a curtain of gold to sweep across her shoulders. One green eye peered out from beneath thick gold bangs, the left obscured by a black leather patch that Morrigan had never seen Catherine without.
Even when she tended Catherine's wounds after the fall of Ostagar, Morrigan had not removed the patch. Curiosity had not dogged her then as it did now. A few scars peppered that area but nothing that could have accounted for the loss of an eye. Catherine did not seem vain enough to wear it simply for aesthetic reasons so whatever she was hiding behind that thin piece of leather must be rather hideous.
Hideous or no, Morrigan wanted to discover what the reserved woman was hiding. Aside from the patch and scars, her face was just shy of being beautiful. Her skin was light, telling of Orlesian ancestry somewhere in the line, but her accent and mannerisms was all Ferelden.
A light dusting of freckles danced across the bridge of a nose that seemed a tad too big for her face and while her smiles were usually small or crooked, her dusky pink lips and dimples made them for that. If one was especially funny, or exceptionally stupid, they would see a quick flash of white teeth before Catherine swallowed it back behind thin lips.
Morrigan noted all of these things but did not go staring at her like a moon stuck cow, not like Leliana. She did not sigh and gaze at the camp fire as if the flames would offer her help, she did not sing disgusting love songs in some fruity language that Catherine did not understand a word of or play with her lute, creating songs just for the Warden's ears. No, she simply watched, content to see Leliana flailing like the worm she was.
Catherine seemed largely ignorant to Leliana's intentions or perhaps she simply wasn't into women, but whatever the reason, the red haired wench was having no luck coaxing the woman into her tent.
'Tis possible she doesn't like redheads, Morrigan allowed herself to ponder for a split second before she realized she didn't care.
The camp, merely a cluster of tents near the center of Ostagar, seemed as dead as the king and Morrigan caught the scent of cooking meat. Refraining from asking if Cailan was still cooking on his pyre, she directed her attention toward the largest tent in the area, noting the smoke bellowing out of the flap in the roof. Leliana had not braved the cold to cook and Morrigan was not going to brave it to eat whatever the wench had prepared.
Shoving the flap aside, the temperature dropped for an instant as cold air rushed in, but the heat quickly won out and Morrigan shed her gloves and heavy cloak unceremoniously, approaching the blazing fire centered in the tent.
"'Tis done, wench?" Morrigan drawled, not looking back when she heard Catherine toss off her cloak in the same fashion she had and approach the fire. Catherine's teeth clamped down on the finger of her soaked gloves and she pried them from her fingers, setting Starfang aside while she warmed her numb digits.
"Yes, Morrigan," Leliana said pleasantly, seemingly not perturbed in the least. Somehow that irritated Morrigan even more than outright hostility.
After a moment of hesitation, catching a spark of aggression radiating off both Leliana and Morrigan, Catherine reached forward and filled three bowls. Alistair and Sten would come in when they were done with the pyre and she knew her war hound would find his own food if need be.
Without looking at either woman, she handed over their bowls and sat down, setting her ice caked boots near the fire. Without the smell of rot clinging to her every breath, she was able to shovel in the food and have it set comfortable in her stomach. When it didn't seem like the stew was planning to escape along with the blood sausage, she filled another bowl and smiled brightly at Leliana.
The sight of Leliana flushing, her cheeks coloring under Catherine's look, sent a trail of disgust down Morrigan's spine. Resisting the urge to growl, she laid her bowl down before she flung the brown concoction at Leliana's flushed face and abruptly stood up.
Catherine's gaze met hers and she found herself tilting her head just slightly up when the Warden stood with her. Catherine was tall for a woman and Morrigan's eyes wandered to her lips, which she was just eye level with. Heat warmed her cheeks and she cursed under breath, turning away from the concerned green eye peering at her.
"I'll go check on that fool," she growled this time, angry at Leliana, angry at Alistair, but mostly angry at herself for blushing.
I am not like that Chantry wench.
"You'll freeze," Catherine grunted, tossing her slightly warmed gloves at Morrigan before she could reach for her frozen ones. The gloves were bigger than her own but she tugged them on, feeling the leftover heat from Catherine's long fingers. The Templar dragged her cloak over too, setting it on Morrigan's shoulders before clipping it tightly to her with a brooch and she couldn't help but feel like Catherine was treating her like a child.
Catherine gently moved her hair away and pulled the hood up, smiling down at her, fingers sneaking into the black locks for a few finger brushes. "You've got snow in your hair." A light of amusement lit up in Catherine's eye. "It looks nice." Just as quickly as the touch had come, it was gone and Catherine was sitting back down next to Leliana, eye on her food.
Morrigan stole one last look at Leliana over Catherine's head as she stood at the flap to the tent; Morrigan's face burned with pleasure while Leliana's burned an angry red, blue eyes flashing dangerously. Golden eyes twinkled before she ducked out of the tent.
Maybe she likes brunettes.
I wrote this a five in the morning because the idea just seized my mind XD PLEASE, review and tell me if I made any mistakes. I will write more if people like my story so far. The rating is M, for later XD Violence, language, sex. XD