The morning quiet was broken by a string of loud cursing from the direction of Morrigan's shelter. Arren exchanged a look with Zevran, who was just clambering out of his tent, then took a few steps in the direction of her little almost-but-not-quite-separate encampment.

"Morrigan?" he called. "Is something wrong?"

There was a moment of silence. Then she spoke, voice clipped with anger. "'Tis that creature of yours again."

Arren shot a look to where Mouse lay on the ground near the fire. The mabari had his back to the elf, his tail and ears tightly clamped down. He sighed. "What did he do this time? Another half-eaten rabbit in your backpack?" he called out.

"No. Apparently your beast has seen fit to use my clothing as a chew-toy," she replied, in that dead calm voice that meant she was seriously angry.

Arren winced. "How bad is it?" he called back.

By now the rest of the camp was stirring, disturbed by their necessarily loud conversation. Wynne emerged from her tent, a pinch-lipped frown on her face as she turned a severe look on Mouse. Oghren had sat up from where he'd been sprawled in a nest of blankets near the fire, and was wincing as he inhaled his morning hair-of-the-dog to take the edge off of his hangover from his previous day's drinking. Sten was sitting up in his own bedding, an annoyed frown on his face – he'd had the middle-of-the-night watch and was grumpy from lack of proper sleep.

The silence dragged on long enough for Arren to begin to feel very worried.

"I require a new article of clothing," she finally called back. "Something to wear until I can repair the damage and clean off the quite incredible quantity of drool."

"I would gladly offer my spare set of armour," Zevran called out. "Sadly, I am embarrassed to admit that after my overly close encounter with that dragon a few days ago, I no longer have a spare set."

"Then your offer 'tis hardly of any help to me," Morrigan called back, her annoyance with the Antivan clearly audible in her voice.

Arren looked hopefully at Wynne. She shook her head. "I'm afraid I have only one robe in wearable condition at the moment as well," she said, then sighed. "Leliana might have somethi..." she started to say, then caught herself, remembering that the bard had parted company with them a couple of days previously.

Leliana and Arren had never gotten along particularly well, and after infuriating him with her thoughtless remarks about elves in general and Dalish elves in particular, as well as how prized well-trained elven servants were in Orlais, he'd pretty much ordered her to pack her things and leave within the hour. She might have protested, but her proselytizing ways had won her few friends among a group that also included an apostate mage, a qunari, a dwarf, and a firmly irreligious elf. Even Alistair had looked more than half ready to back Arren up if the elven warrior had chosen to draw the massive two-handed sword strapped across his back and force the issue – Leliana had failed to befriend him either. She'd departed in high dudgeon.

"Doubt she'd fit in anything of mine," Oghren said. "Though I'd sure love to see her try. Would be like two nugs mating in a pillowcase. Four if you include the front view."

"That's... a mental image I could have done without," Alistair said. "I don't know, I might have a spare shirt somewhere... does it have to be clean? And, you know... free of holes?"

"Parshaara!" Sten exclaimed in annoyance, dug into his backpack, then rose and strode in the direction of Morrigan's shelter. "Here!" he called, stopping well back from the hanging shielding her from the view of the general camp, and tossed a bundle of fabric to the ground beside it before stalking back over to his bedroll. He lay down, and wrapped himself back up in his blankets. "Wake me when breakfast is ready," he said, and closed his eyes.

"Thank you," Morrigan's surprised voice called from the direction of her shelter a long moment later. Apparently she'd been just as startled by his actions as the rest of them. Her arm stretched out under the edge of the hanging and snatched the fabric bundle out of view.

The drama of the morning having made them realize how desperately in need of maintenance and repair all of their gear was, the group elected to take a rest day and spend the day in mending and cleaning. Arren's gear was in fine condition, so he decided to go hunting for fresh meat for the cook pot while the others were all busy. He smiled as he strung his rarely-used bow and headed off into the forest, his step light even with a sword taller than he was strapped to his back.

He was returning later that day, a pair of rabbits and a sizable goose swinging from one hand, when he heard a faint musical humming and stopped to look around. It was Morrigan, seated cross-legged on the ground with her back leaning again a large tree, eyes closed and face tilted up to enjoy the afternoon sunshine, her pile of mending lying forgotten by her knee. She was dressed in the roughly woven cotton tunic that Sten had been wearing when they'd met him in Lothering. Given their comparative sizes, it should have covered her to the knees, but she'd fashioned a belt out of a couple of the chewed-off straps from her black leather skirt, blousing the oversized tunic over it, and as a result it only stretched down to mid-thigh on her. The overly long sleeves were neatly folded back to her elbows. The fabric of the shirt was soft as butter from multiple washings, and draped around her form in interesting ways. A slight breeze fluttered the fabric, momentarily flattening it against her, and Arren realized his mouth had gone dry at the sight.

Strange, that it would be more erotic to see so much less of her. He was intimately familiar with the shape of the body within the enveloping cloth, but seeing her so swathed in excess fabric lent her magnificent figure a mystery it was usually lacking. At the same time, the abbreviated curve of fabric across her lap completely failed to hide how very long and slender and athletically muscular her legs were. The bunching and relaxation of muscles in her thighs as she shifted position was... very distracting, as were memories of those long, powerful legs wrapped around his hips, her feet pressed against his buttocks, as he buried himself in her...

"If you mean to secretly spy on me, 'twould be better done without the reek of recently dead animal," she observed calmly, eyes still shut.

Arren coughed. "Sorry. I... was surprised to see you here."

"Oh?" she said, and opened her eyes, then smoothly unfolded to stand up, leaning back against the tree, giving him an amused look. "How so? I am a witch of the wilds, am I not? And these," – she looked pointedly around at the surrounding forest, gestured lazily with one hand – "are wilds, are they not?"

She stooped suddenly, retrieved her bundle of clothing, the loose fabric falling away to give him a brief glimpse down the front of her shirt. "Besides, did you not make it clear you had no interest in me? Why this strange watchfulness then?" she demanded, then turned and stalked away.

Arren watched her leave, eyes glued to the hypnotic rhythm of her buttocks moving under the thin fabric. He sighed, then picked a slightly different angle and continued back toward camp as well.

He shouldn't have refused to accept that ring. She was never going to forgive him for that.

Arren put aside a serving of game stew for himself, then ladled out a second bowlful and carefully carried it over to Morrigan's area. It was something he'd started doing when it first became clear that she preferred to maintain her distance from the rest of them. For a while there was a time when he'd have brought over his food as well, and the two of them would sit and talk quietly while they ate, but he'd stopped doing so after she so angrily severed their blossoming relationship.

He still wasn't sure why it had so insulted her to turn down the ring. He'd have been happy to take it, if she hadn't made it so coldly clear that it was no token of affection. It had felt... wrong, to accept it after that.

She was seated by her fire, still dressed in Sten's tunic, her hands locked around her forearms under raised knees, a somewhat sad, wistful expression on her face as she gazed into the flames. She startled as he drew close, then frowned at him. "I do wish you were less light-footed," she snapped. "I mislike being unaware of your approach."

He shrugged, refusing to let the words sting him. "What can I say, I'm Dalish – I don't walk any other way than quietly."

She snorted, then accepted her bowl of stew with ill grace, putting it down beside her and returning her attention to her fire.

He turned, and started to walk back to the main encampment and his own waiting meal.

"Arren," she suddenly said.

He stopped, and looked back enquiringly. She glanced his way, only momentarily meeting his eyes, then looked away, off into the surrounding woods. "I am sorry," she said quietly.

"For what?" he asked, surprised.

"For... being so unreasonable," she said, and looked down. Her hand dropped to the ground beside her hip, and her fingers dug through the loose sand and gravel, then smoothed out the marks she'd made. "It angered me that you have given me so many fine things, but refused to accept the one token I wished to give you. I thought you would like the ring..."

He walked a few steps back in her direction. "It wasn't the ring I disliked," he said softly. "The things I gave you... don't you know why I gave them to you?" he asked.

She glanced his way again, looked away. "No," she said, voice so low the word was barely audible.

He sighed, softly. "I gave them to you because I liked you and wanted to please you. I gave them to you so I could see your face light up with the pleasure of owning beautiful things. I... gave them to you to make you happy."

She frowned, still not meeting his eyes. "That does not explain why you would not accept my ring."

"Why did you offer it to me? You told me it was a token that you could track me by. That it had no meaning apart from that. Is that truly all it was?"

A very long silence. "No," she admitted, voice tight and strained. She turned her face further away, but not before he caught sight of a tear spilling down the curve of her cheek.

"Emma vhenan, numin'din," he murmured gently, stepping closer and kneeling by her side, reaching out to cup his hand to her cheek.

She turned to look at him, perplexed. "What?"

He smiled. "Don't cry."

She gave a short, sharp laugh. "You are an infuriating man, you know."

"I know. But would you truly want any other kind?" he asked, dropping his hand to rest on his bent knee, tilting his head slightly to one side and giving her a crooked smile.

She laughed again, sounding amused this time. "I suppose not," she agreed, then reached out and took his hand in hers. "Can we forgive each other?"

"I'm willing to try if you are," he said softly.

She nodded, once, and rose to her feet, tugging on his hand to draw him up as well. "Come with me," she said, releasing him, and turned and walked off into the surrounding forest.

He followed her into the darkness beneath the trees.

She was barely visible in the darkness ahead of him, her pale skin and the pale shirt just barely reflecting the light of the campfires when not occluded by the shadows of trees or himself. She stopped once they were well away from the clearing and turned to face him, leaning back against a tree, head lifted challengingly.

He walked forward, and stopped, looking her over. She was a mystery in the darkness, a pale shape silhouetted against the darker bark of the tree. The night was silent around them. He swallowed, and moved closer, reaching out to rest his hands to either side of her head. Her outstretched legs had lowered her just enough relative to his own height that their heads were on a level with each either for once. He leaned slowly forward, staring into her eerily reflective eyes. Like the eyes of a cat or a wolf, seeming to shine brightly with even the faintest source to reflect. He paused, very briefly, and licked his lips, feeling the warm puff of her breath against his moist skin as he leaned forward, closing the final gap between them.

He kissed her lightly at first, lips just lightly brushing against hers, then opened his mouth just enough to begin giving teasing flicks of his tongue to her own lips. She made a sound of approval, and her own mouth slowly opened, inviting entrance. He sucked her lower lip into his mouth, nipping gently at it, then released it and slowly, languorously, thrust his tongue into her mouth. For a while they simply stood there, tongues twining around, now in her mouth, now in his, in a slow exploration, touching nowhere but there.

Her hands rose, and settled on his hips, fingertips stroking firmly against the taut leather, teasing the flesh within. She trailed them down the outside of his thighs, then slowly back up again, thumbs curving around to stroke and press against the front of his thighs. He made a choked sound as the pressure tightened the already-snug leather over his groin.

"You are wearing far too many clothes," she observed, and reached to the first of the many buckles holding on his armour.

He straightened, and unslung his sword, carefully putting it to one side, kicked off his books, then began methodically unfastening the buckles at the top of his armour, while her clever fingers dealt with ones lower down. She purred as his top fell open, sliding her hands inside and pushing it open wider, and back, catching it as it slid down his arms, before casting it away to one side. He started to reach for the fastenings of his breeches, and she slapped at his hands, obviously preferring to take care of that herself. He stood quietly, watching as she untied the last laces, and skinned his leggings down to the ground, kneeling down and tapping each shin in turn to signal for him to lift a foot so she could free the material from around his ankles. That, too, joined the discarded jacket.

She crouched there a moment, the smile on her face as she looked up at him just barely visible, then leaned slowly forward. He felt her warm breath caressing his length through the fabric of his smallclothes, then she turned her head sideways and gently closed her teeth around the bulge of his shaft. He shivered and hissed in air through his teeth as she slowly nibbled her way up and down his length, tongue pressing rhythmically at him through the thin fabric. The massaging pressure, the harder clench of her teeth, the thin increasingly moist fabric tightening and loosening and shifting against his inflamed flesh... it was exquisite. His breathing became hoarse and he was finding it increasingly difficult to stand still, without moving his hips. Abruptly she stopped, and rose to her feet.

"My turn," she said throatily.

He nodded, and dropped to one knee before her as she resumed her casual pose against the tree. He gently reached out, cupping his hands around her legs just above her knees, and slowly slid his hands upwards and then down again, up and then down, going a little higher on each smoothing stoke, not dropping quite so far. His fingers slid under the hanging edge of the shift, the fabric rising and falling with the movement of his hands. Her breath was slow and deep as he reached even further up. He turned his hands inwards at the top of the stroke, running his fingers down the silky skin of her inner thighs, then outwards again at the bottom, pressing firmly into his flesh with his thumbs as he ran his hands back up again, vanishing entirely under the loose shirt until they rested on her stomach, thumbs pressed against her pubis. She gave a deep sigh, and canted her hips forward, pressing against his hands.

He glanced up at her, grinned to see the intent way she was looking down at him, then leaned forward, and stopped, frustrated by the overhanging drape of fabric that shielded her from him. He made an annoyed sound, then ducked his head and nosed the fabric to one side, tossing his head so it lifted and dropped again with the fabric puddling on top of his head. Morrigan made an amused sound, and he grinned, then drew in a deep breath, revelling in her scent. She was, he noticed, wearing no smallclothes under the tunic. He leaned forward, gently parting her folds with pressure from his thumbs, and licked between them, seeking and finding the hardened bud of flesh hidden between them.

She moaned as he tongued her, tilting her hips for a better angle. Her hands came to rest on his shoulders, thumbs massaging slowly back and forth along his collarbones. He could hear her breathing deepening, feel the long muscles in her thighs beginning to tremble.

"Up," she commanded, and he quickly abandoned what he'd been doing, rose to his feet. She lifted one leg, hooked it around his thigh, drawing him close, then growled and spat a curse as she realized he was still constrained by his smallclothes. She moved back just slightly and reached down, there was a tiny snap of magic and a sparking sensation against his skin that drew a startled yelp from him, then the remnant of fabric slid down and puddled on the ground between his feet.

"I could have just taken them off, you know," he told her, grinning.

She snorted. "Shut up." she told him, and pulled him close a second time, hands reaching up to tighten on his shoulders.

She was warm and wet, more then ready for him, and he slid home almost effortlessly, her muscles loosening easily to let him in, then clamping tightly around him. As he leaned into her, she lifted her other leg and wrapped it, too, around his waist, so that she was supported only by the tree at her back, her hands on his shoulders, and the intimate connection of of their lower halves. He slid his hands up under the shirt, cupping her buttocks.

The backwards arch of her body was causing interesting effects with the thin fabric. It overlay her like a second skin, every detail of her torso clearly outlined yet still concealed. Seeing the fabric tent over her tightening nipples was even more exciting then seeing them directly usually was. He growled, wishing he could suckle on them through the fabric, but the position was wrong for that. Still, the thought alone was enough to send an extra surge of pure need through his groin. He began to thrust.

Morrigan made a throaty sound and began to flex her own hips, the muscles in her buttocks and thighs tightening and loosening rhythmically with the effort. Her hard heels ground into his rear, urging him closer. She was tight around his penis, tight and wet and oh so wonderfully hot.

It had been too long since they'd last done this; he knew he was going to reach completion soon. Thankfully Morrigan seemed to be in the same state. When her keening cry rose a few moments later, his own hoarse shout was barely a half-second behind it.

They stood that way a moment, still wrapped in each other, their panting breaths gradually slowing, before she slowly lowered one leg to the ground and they gently separated. Arren bent, retrieved the scrap of fabric that had been his smallclothes and wordlessly offered it to her so that she might clean herself first. She gently wiped him clean as well, then tossed the fabric away. Slowly, quietly, she helped him redress in his armour.

He drew her into his arms afterwards, and gave her a gentle kiss, then rested his forehead against hers, and gave her a mischievous smile.

"I wonder if Sten will mind if you keep this shirt."