She was torn between actual concern, and the kind of amusement (tempered by barely sustained tolerance) with which one necessarily became very familiar after travelling with Oghren for more than a few days. When he'd appeared, she had motioned to Carran to stop the wagon, and now she hopped down to investigate.

His eyes were glittering almost feverishly, and she reconsidered her previous notion to approach and put a hand on his shoulder. Instead, she crossed her arms. "Calm down, Oghren, and tell me why your ass needs saving."

The recruits were likely staring, and she thought she might hear Alistair tramping up from behind her, but she kept her attention on Oghren. He was staring incredulously at her, like she'd just refused a keg of grain beer in favour of sour nug milk.

"What d'you mean, why? We didn't stop at a single dumpy little pisshole village where some witless rotter wasn't asking for our help clearing out bandits or finding some kid's lost cat and you never sodding asked them why—"

"I always asked why, Oghren," she said patiently, and now Alistair was beside her, looking uneasy. "Now spit it out."

With an aggravated grunt, the cantankerous dwarf seemed to visibly deflate. "Fine. Suspicious bloody moss-licking—" Jerking his head back towards the natty, grey stone cottage he'd tumbled out of, Oghren grunted again. "Just, come on then."

There was indeed a barn, one of the more spacious outbuildings she'd seen in the village, and Carran and Leofric offered to get the wagon and horses settled while the rest of them piled into Oghren's cosy homestead. Cosy quickly became cramped when thirteen bodies attempted to pile inside.

"Oh my goodness," Zevran cooed mischievously, leaning forward to rest his hands on the back of one small kitchen chair. "Look at the sweet little house! All the better for his tiny drunken stumbling—"

"Zev, do not start," she warned evenly, rather enjoying the rare luxury of having her feet rest on the floor when she sat at a table. Most of the furniture she could see had obviously been built with dwarva in mind, but the cottage itself was spacious enough that only Eddard had to duck slightly. "This is a handsome home, Oghren."

He leaned back in his own chair, running his hand absently over his neatly shorn head. "Felsi's idea— got to pay that miserable innkeeper a half-dozen bottles of the good stuff every month to keep it. Not bloody worth it, if you ask me. Could've just lived in her room above the tavern, but no, she wanted somewhere with a proper kitchen and more space and a garden and… and I don't want to talk about it."

"Where is Felsi?" Alistair asked, leaning beside the smouldering hearth. "She wasn't at the Spoiled Princess when we stopped in."

"She's out." Oghren's tone would've sounded simply crotchety and gruff to the recruits, but there was an affection hidden beneath that was rather heart-warming. Branka had left a considerable wound in this man, but perhaps Felsi was indeed the woman to help mend it. "Should be back soon— that's why you've got to stifle all the sodding questions and just listen." Jabbing two thick fingers at the tabletop, he started to say something else, then glanced warily at the passel of strangers watching the exchange. "And you all can just bugger off and at least pretend you're not listening in like nosy old biddies."

There was a general uncomfortable shuffling, but Oghren just scowled and turned back to his former companions— one Warden in particular. "I thought it'd be great, right," he began, and she sat forward a bit to make the conversation at least feel more private. "Living with a barmaid, all the free booze I could drink, never getting kicked out of the tavern for loosening my pants—"

"Removing your pants—" Alistair corrected, but Oghren didn't even acknowledge the interruption, pushing through with perhaps a tinge of desperation.

"—But it's just bloody awful." Furrowing his ruddy brow, the dwarf immediately began to backtrack. "Well, all right, it's not awful… she lets me drink whenever I want, and she keeps the sheets clean, and by the Stone, can the woman cook—"

Sensing some inner turmoil, the three lovers shared a knowing look. Zevran, perhaps regrettably, was the first to speak up. "So what is the problem, my stocky little friend? Being acquainted with your people's… appetites, I must ask: is she too much woman for you?"

"Maker's breath, Zev," Alistair groaned, but Oghren just barked out a harsh laugh.

"Heh, yeah, very nearly, but Oghren's a special kind of man. Berserker stamina— drives 'em wild every time. That's not it, though." Now he was looking her straight on, intently, scratching his head again. "Felsi's been… hinting about things. Pushing me. You're a Paragon now, so she'll listen to you… probably. Anyway, you've got to tell her to lay off."

She narrowed her eyes, but direct questioning wouldn't get her anything except cursed at, she was sure. There would be a roundabout way of figuring this out. Dropping her voice to a murmur, she rested her elbow on the table and propped her forehead up on one hand. "Oghren, your last wife was a Paragon and she left you for another woman. Now you're asking another Paragon to meddle in your relationship with your new wife—"

"Felsi's not my wife, you sodding thunderhumper!" She didn't flinch at the sudden shouting; she'd half-expected it at some point during the conversation. Catching himself after the outburst, Oghren growled sharply, then continued. "We've just got, uh, an understanding. Oghren's not getting tied down by any woman— not again. That's what you've got to talk to Felsi about. I thought she got it, said she did at least, just—"

It should have been more surprising that the barmaid in question chose that opportunity to return home, but a certain Warden Commander had stopped being shocked by such coincidences not long after Duncan had snatched her out of the Deep Roads. Perhaps the Ancestors had some plan for her life, or perhaps they simply had a sense of humour.

"Oh," Felsi said mildly when she saw the unexpected crowd crammed into her home. "The Wardens have arrived, I see." As the sturdy woman stepped inside, it became a bit more apparent why she hadn't been working at the tavern earlier that day— under her simple sand-coloured dress and dark cloak, she was round and bulky with child.

"That is… well, quite an understanding," Alistair said under his breath, while Zevran started snickering.

"Blast it," Oghren muttered, then raised his voice. "I'm putting them out in the barn— hold your water, woman." Felsi was already untying her cloak and hanging it near the door, seemingly unperturbed by the unnecessarily defensive tone. Her general good-humour may have been due to the way Oghren, despite his prickly words, scrambled up and slid a supportive arm around her back, resting one rough hand on her belly as he lead her over to the table and the seat he'd vacated. "Where's that pebble brained shrew anyway? Letting you waddle home alone when you're full to bursting…"

Felsi sighed deeply, wiping at the faint, grubby finger marks left on her dress as she sunk down onto the chair. "My legs aren't broken, Oghren, but keep up this ridiculous fussing and yours might be. And don't try to tell me you weren't nagging our honoured guest to convince me you're too wild a man to get married, or any rot like that." Weathering the glare she received without a flinch, Felsi turned to other woman also seated at her table, offering a sweet smile. Whether it was living with Oghren, or the glow her current delicate state provided, she looked blissful. "Atrast vala, Paragon. It's a privilege to have you in our home."

"Thank you, Felsi, truly," she replied, trying to keep the dread from dimming her expression. "But please, I'll suffer enough of that rubbish once we arrive in Orzammar."

"Your own fault," Oghren countered, and his dark amusement at her discomfort was apparent in the twist of his grin. "Ah, don't worry about it here; Paragon lost its sheen for me years ago. You know you're family far as I'm concerned— I certainly don't think you're sodding infallible."

Clearing her throat sharply, Felsi continued as if he hadn't spoken. "There're more of you than I expected, but I could throw something together for supper if you haven't eaten yet." Forcing herself not to glance down at the curved swell of stomach peeking up over the edge of the table, the Warden Commander demurred gracefully. The idea of the other woman wobbling about the hearth, fixing up the significant quantity of food the company required, was not to be borne— and she certainly wasn't eating Oghren's cooking. Not again.

"We've enough of our own supplies, but if we could beg use of your hearth for the evening, that would be most kind."

The meal had been rather good, the dishes were cleaned and bundled back in the wagon, and the recruits and their new mage companions were out huddling together in the barn. She felt some measure of guilt at hustling them out, but truly, the cottage was just too small to keep them all comfortable— soon, once Oghren had gotten too drunk to reminisce, she, Alistair, and Zevran would leave the warmth of the hearth and join the others in their rustic accommodations.

"Surprising, s'all I'm sayin'—" With his chair tilting dangerously backwards, Oghren rested his mug on his gut, slopping his shirt with a ring of ale. "Holed up in that fortress, doin' nothing. Thought you'd be getting fat, but you're still just so… oh. Hm."

Shaking her head, she stretched out a bit and wiggled her toes a little closer to the fire. "You missed your chance, dear Oghren. I'm spoken for, and you've got a wee one on the way— I try not to let the regret consume me." Alistair barely twitched from his slump over the end of the table, while Zevran, lounging on the floor beside her chair, ran one surreptitious hand up the inside of her calf with a smirk.

"Aye, would've been a sodding great tumble at that," Oghren agreed, sounding genuinely wistful, and they were quickly approaching the realm of too much ale. Then he shook himself, scrubbing one hand over his face. "Oh, hey, almost forgot. Felsi wanted to tell you at supper, but not in front of those scrawny-necked nug-humpers you're running with. Heh." Taking a long swallow of his drink, the dwarf glanced over at the darkened doorway nearby, where his not-wife had already retired. "We're naming the kid after you— and don't get all soppy with your dewlicking womanly feelings. You dragged me kicking and brawling out of the dust, and showed a pickled waste of a sword-caste that he could still do something worth doing." There was a moment of heavy silence, and something needed to be said, some thanks or recognition of the sincere, rather moving speech, but before she could find her voice, Oghren shifted in his chair and broke wind. It was loud and jarring, and somehow made the entire evening perfect.

"Oh, no mate," Ambrose murmured, poking Rimon's back with the toe of his boot. "She'd tear you in half— Maker's breath, probably just using her mind."

The four gents weren't trying to be standoffish, lounging against the hay bales like a bunch of lazy sots, but the mages weren't exactly making the effort to be sociable either. Llyr was a tough one to figure out, going from jovially chatting and larking about to wandering outside to stand about in the cold alone— no hint as to why, no explanation. Amery had snuck over to peek out at him after he'd been gone for a good while, because it was generally assumed that losing one of the mages the first day would get the Commander's back up to no end, but apparently the man was just leaning against the barn and staring out into the night.

Marion, well, she was the reason Rimon was currently suffering a ribbing.

He was incredibly glad Keliani was out of earshot, chatting with Remya as the dwarf honed her axe. He and Keliani, they'd grown up together along with a dozen or so other elven children around their age, and while she wasn't actually his blood relation, she certainly teased him like only a beloved cousin or sister would. She'd gotten significantly more sombre since they'd left the alienage, which was a shame, because for all her sharpness she'd always had a beautiful smile. For something like mooning over a mysterious human mage, he was almost certain she'd cheer up enough to torture him.

"Might be worth it," he said quietly, responding to the previous comment and his own musing, and Amery hummed in eager agreement. He couldn't see Ambrose behind him, but he could imagine his dubious expression. Eddard, spread out on a makeshift cushion of straw, shook his head with a chuckle. Their impromptu gossip session was smaller than usual, for various reasons— Carran was over brushing the horses; Soren was off sulking, being especially unsociable for whatever bloody reason this time; and Leofric was curled up in his cloak, sleeping off the dark, heady ale the poor blighter knew he couldn't hold, but had accepted a mug anyway like a polite fool at supper.

Rimon knew he was out of his mind, but perhaps it was the ale sloshing about in his own gut. He couldn't remember another human woman who'd ever really turned his head— there was something about their build, too tall and thick, and their faces tended to be too broad. Granted, his exposure to human women had been somewhat limited before he'd left Denerim, and those he had seen tended to look at him like he was some sort of filthy animal just escaped from its pen, or with a kind of pity that made his skin crawl.

This human woman, though, she looked at all of them with the same mild disinterest, and Andraste's lacy drawers, but she was gorgeous. Dropping his head to rest against the hay at his back, Rimon snorted. "Ah, I'm a little soused. Just… don't let me go over there."

"I'd tackle you first," Ambrose assured him, too loudly. "Or get Ed to sit on your chest."

"Ed's not sitting on anybody's chest," Remya called out absently, not even looking over. "I've laid my claim to that firm arse now, and 'less he wants to have words, he won't forget it."

Rather than become embarrassed at the outburst, Eddard just looked smug. "Understood, darling," he replied dutifully, and his pleased smirk didn't even falter when Amery slapped his shoulder.

Rimon froze when Keliani shot him a shrewd, rather displeased glance, and he felt his stomach drop when she leaned in to whisper something to Remya. After a brief, terrifying moment, the dwarf barked out a sharp laugh.

"And could one of you pervy bastards roll Rimon's tongue back in his head?" Remya grinned, holding her blade up to inspect the edge. "Gettin' drool all down his shirt, the poor duster. But hey, go on over and give'r a try, salroka, if you're willing to risk getting turned into a cave tick—"

Marion wasn't looking at them, dark eyes still scanning the book she'd been engrossed in for near on an hour, but Rimon felt as though his cheeks were on fire. Stupid bloody loudmouthed dwarf—

"Going for some air," he announced sharply, pulling himself to his feet with some force. He ignored the surprised pleas from his fellows to stay, and it was sheer drunken spite that made him tramp on Eddard's foot as he stalked off. Marion might not be looking at him, but Keliani certainly was, and her expression held not an ounce of contrition.

Sometimes he just hated her.

Hauling the barn door open just enough to slip outside, Rimon discovered precisely how much of the night's cold was on the wind. Inside was certainly not toasty warm, but he couldn't bite back his yelp when the shifting, bitter air hit his skin, cutting quite effectively through his tunic and trousers. Llyr, leaning rather carelessly nearby, turned his head at the sound.

There was a flash of teeth in the moonlight as the man offered him a broad, easy smile. "Come to check on me?"

With kindness for his compatriots that he hardly felt at the moment, Rimon closed the door behind himself to keep the wind out, then kicked a divot in the hard-packed snow. "No," he snapped, then just as quickly he felt his childish anger fizzle. "Ah, damn, I don't mean to be an arsehole." The mage was still looking at him over one shoulder, not speaking, but something about damnable dwarven-made ale brought Rimon's words tumbling out. "It's just them—" He waved one hand in a wide arc, trying to encompass the whole of the barn. "Being pricks, and I'm nearly drunk, and disgustingly cranky, and holy Maker, how have you stayed out here this long?"

The wind from the lake was harsh and strong, and Rimon was silently cursing the cloak he'd left inside. Only half-aware, he barely caught Llyr's shrug. "Magic, Warden."

Hoping that maybe that magic was catching, or perhaps the mage had some sort of aura of heat, Rimon edged closer. "It's Rimon. Warden might get awfully confusing, with eleven of us."

"You are nearly drunk." Llyr chuckled, but even in his current state, Rimon could hear the undercurrent of questions beginning to take shape. No alienage elf survived without being able to read people, especially humans, and he'd been with the Wardens long enough to know how much of their secretive Order he should speak of. "I counted twelve, unless you were excluding your lovely Commander."

"Brave," he said, and now that he was close enough, it was apparent the mage was emanating some kind of heat. Had he one more mug of ale in him, Rimon thought he might have grabbed the human in a desperate hug. "Though I suppose she is lovely, in a terrifyingly deadly sort of a way… quite like a thunderstorm."

Perhaps due to a growing interest in the direction of the conversation, Llyr turned fully and pressed his back against the barn. "Oh Rimon, you didn't see her cutting down that archdemon like fury itself. If that's not lovely enough to risk a bit of lightning, well." There was a flash, so bright it made huge purple spots dance across his vision, and the air suddenly smelled strange and almost metallic. When his eyes finally cleared, Rimon could see a dripping hole in a nearby snow bank, ragged and nearly the size of a wagon wheel.

"Andraste's mercy," he breathed, tucking his hands tight under his arms. He realised he sounded like a lad again, squeaking voice and all, but he couldn't clear the tightness from his throat. "Did you just make lightning?"

"Only a little." Llyr was grinning now, flexing his fingers, but Rimon had faced the uncontrollable threat of death from humans his entire life. Perhaps the display was meant to be impressive, or perhaps frightening— either way, he was simply startled.

"Hm." Finally, he got his voice back under control. Talking about the Commander as if she were a normal woman made him feel much more nervous than some mage putting on a show, so he changed the subject. "Right. And I meant eleven— Zevran's not a Warden, nor will he ever be, I expect."

"The Antivan?" When Rimon nodded, Llyr sighed with what sounded like contentment. "Ah, my new favourite person— he's got Marion in a bloody fit, though you'd hardly know it, the frigid shrew. If we weren't already at some sort of paradise for the besotted, I'd buy him a drink." There was still a sensible part of his mind, and with a desperate shriek it kept him from asking anything about Marion. "Wait, he's not a Warden, but he's coming on this trip? How interesting."

Now there was a cacophony in his head— he shouldn't ask about Marion, he shouldn't ask why that was interesting, he shouldn't show this mage he knew nothing specific about the purpose of the trip, and he shouldn't talk about his companions more than necessary. Trying to keep up the appearance of an enigmatic, legendary Order was certainly difficult when strangers seemed to know more about it than you.

"Maybe to you," he replied, not unkindly but with any luck, rather mysteriously. "It hardly hurts the Grey Wardens to keep powerful allies close, does it?"

Llyr didn't answer, but after a few moments of silence, he flicked his hand in Rimon's direction. "Here," he said quietly, and the faint heat intensified and expanded. It was like standing near a good-sized fire, and Rimon could feel it leeching into his tense muscles. "If you're going to keep me company, I'd rather you didn't freeze to death."

Drunkenly pining over some sharp, sour mage he'd just met was certainly reason enough to tease poor Rimon a tad, but his offended reaction had quite effectively sobered his companions. The young elven man was fierce in combat, and could be a proper riot as well— but only if his peculiar shyness didn't overcome him. One wrong joke, one mishandled response, and he would retreat. Usually he'd simply get quiet and cranky, but on rare occasions like this one, he would actually walk away. It wasn't nearly so volatile as dealing with Soren, but it did cause a bit more guilt among the recruits.

"That's just marvellous, girls. Really." Amery sat up from his sprawl, scowling darkly. "You especially, Ani, because don't think we all didn't see that look. If you've got that much of an issue with us shems, even after all this bloody time, say so now."

"Or," Ambrose continued smoothly, before Keliani could even open her mouth to reply. Suddenly, the oft-dissimilar brothers were flinty-eyed mirrors of each other. "If all this hissing is because you're interested in getting into Rimon's britches yourself, just tell the poor sod. He'd probably weep with the joy of it."

"Shut your stupid flapping gobs, the pair of you," Keliani snarled, losing her enviable composure in favour of embarrassed anger. Still, she managed to keep her voice low, so as not to carry across the barn. "You've no blighted idea what I've gone through for my entire life, trying to keep him safe. He's like family, and I thought that of any of us, you two would understand that."

Rather than look understanding, Amery rolled his eyes. "He's not some weedy little boy for you to lead about by the nose, you mulish woman. I agree completely that he'd be better off trying to tumble a blight wolf than that—" With the smallest of movements, he tilted his thumb in Marion's direction. "But you didn't have to try and have him gelded in front of his friends." Their conversation had degraded to harsh whispering, but it was enough that Leofric groaned piteously before turning over and curling into a tight ball. Carran seemed to notice something amiss as well, padding over towards the rest of them with a confused frown.

Remya didn't apologise, she never did, but she did rub the back of her wrist harshly under her nose and glare at the floor. The twins didn't seem to be assigning much blame to her anyway, which was hardly surprising— taking all of Remya's jibes seriously would nearly guarantee constant misery, and intense feelings of inadequacy. It was, perhaps regrettably, part of her charm.

Carran crossed his lean, muscled arms, looking strangely stern for a man who'd just been chatting affably, and at length, to a pair of horses. "What's all the fuss? Where's Rimon gotten off to?"

"The girls embarrassed him," Amery replied, propping his knees up closer to his chest to make room on the hay bale. Now looking disappointedly at Remya and Keliani, Carran didn't notice.

"Shut up, Amery." Even steely, stubborn Keliani seemed to wither under the weight of Carran's doleful gaze. "He was going to make a fool of himself. He doesn't, I mean— dammit, he's gone outside in a strop."

"We're Wardens," Carran said very quietly. "Or near enough; he's your brother in arms. Teasing's all well and good for some, but you know how he gets. Why you'd think making him feel like a fool would keep him from acting like one is beyond my ken." With a determined set to his shoulders, he motioned towards the door. "He's just contrary enough to stay out there 'til he freezes his backside off, and I'm not willing to explain to the Commander why we were having another daft row. Now, somebody get off their duff and go fetch him."

"I'll go—" Keliani began, but Eddard was already hauling himself to his feet with a deep sigh.

"No, you won't," he muttered, rolling his neck and brushing the straw out of his hair with one broad hand. "Maker's blessing for offering, but you know you'll just make everything worse. I'll go, and if he won't listen to reason I'll just carry him in; no strain. Now, all of you wait here."

It wasn't very long after Eddard had trudged outside, letting in a gust of frosty wind on his way, that he returned with two companions in tow. Llyr had a quirk to his brow that seemed to indicate his former want for seclusion had faded, while Rimon was staring at them all quite warily, squirming under the press of Eddard's grip on his shoulder.

Carran had sat on the hay before Eddard even made it to the barn doors, and now he tapped the back of his hand briefly against Amery's nearby calf. "Come on then," he said, smiling just a little as he tucked his braid behind his ear. "Get your cards out, Amery. We're not ending such a fine night squabbling, so let's play for a while and all be mates again by the end. This is foolishness."

Oghren was out cold, sagging out of his chair so far his beard nearly touched the floorboards and snoring as loud as a high dragon's roar. With great care, she and Zevran managed to get Alistair to his feet and shuffled quietly out into the night, all without their indisposed host even twitching.

"You're little," Alistair announced, rather slurred. His feet were dragging as he leaned heavily on Zevran, nearly buckling the slighter man's knees when he jostled about, all bulky muscles and floppy joints. "Both of you are so little. It's just… wonderful. You're perfect, and I love you so much."

"Thank you, cariño." Grunting as he rammed his shoulder under Alistair's arm, Zevran struggled to get a better grip. "Now stop wriggling, or so help me, I will leave you to freeze to death."

It was not a quick trip, staggering from the cottage to the barn in the slick snow, especially since none of them had full faculties intact. Clinging to Alistair's other side, something that in theory was meant to help the journey but in reality simply made the three of them all the more unsteady, she giggled softly.

"You're finally drunk, Alistair," she said, poking his belly and making him squirm even more. "Just like you wanted. Isn't it lovely?"

"I am drunk." Alistair's voice was full of wonder, and Zevran shot her a dark look. "How does, how does Oghren fight like this? Maker, the ground feels like it's made of custard…" Trailing off, he licked his lips, then pressed a wet, sloppy kiss against Zevran's cheek. "Thank you, kind ser, for the escort across this treacherous, custardy path. I'd invite you to take full advantage of my willing state, but I think I'm going to sleep soon. Hm, very soon."

"Alas," Zevran lamented flatly, and they were finally with arm's reach of the barn. With one final heave, he pushed his passenger over to lean beside the wide wooden doors, only to be set upon again, this time by a lovely, buxom dwarf.

"I'm not tired." Pressing herself tight against his front, she slid her hands around to squeeze his firm rear quite boldly. "And I certainly wouldn't mind being taken advantage of."

Alistair sniffed loudly, eyes already fluttering closed. "I hate ale," he grumbled, former cheerful mood quickly giving way to grumpy lethargy. "My insides hurt. You two go make sweet little sweaty sounds at each other. Oh, sleep."

Unwrapping herself from Zevran just long enough to pull the barn door open, she kissed Alistair's hand as she herded him inside. "Go lie down, my love. We'll be there soon to cuddle."

"Oh, cuddles—" Noticing the circle of men and women watching the exchange over a hand of cards, Alistair dropped his voice to a whisper. "I love to cuddle." Leaning down, nearly toppling over onto his face, he managed to steady himself enough to kiss a bit of skin near her mouth.

"Could one of you see to him, please?" Zevran was waving a hand in the direction of the recruits, motioning for assistance. "Get him lying down without breaking his neck, at least. The Commander and I will return shortly." When she saw that both Ambrose and Eddard were getting to their feet, she allowed her attention to shift back to certain pressing matters— the expression coiling around Zevran's features made heat pool deep in her belly.

"Thank you, lads," she murmured absently, a little embarrassed at her own distraction, but then Zevran's smirk widened dangerously.

"And if I catch any of you peeking, my little Wardens, you'll have to join in. Those are, of course, the rules." Before she could do so much as blush, Zevran had an arm looping around her, and was tugging her back into the night— the very chilly night.

Curling against him, she swallowed hard at the thought of baring her skin in this wind. "Out here?"

"Unless you'd rather an audience," he replied quite conversationally, already reaching under the skirt of her leathers to unlace her leggings. "I certainly wouldn't mind. In fact, I work rather well under scrutiny."

There were cold fingers and colder leather gloves, but the feelings they were suddenly evoking were hot and insistent, and with a surprised gasp she grabbed hold of Zevran's arms for support. The bit of ale she'd enjoyed helped dull the bite of the wintry weather, but made his touch seem even more like lightning along her skin.

He was leaning over her, crowding her against the barn as he began to lick up the side of her neck. The heat of his tongue left damp trails that cooled almost immediately, and she shivered at the contrast and at the urgent movements of Zevran's wrist.

"But you hate the cold," she whispered into his hair, then quickly struggled to catch her breath as he twisted his hand and bit down on her collarbone.

"You keep me warm." His voice was even softer than hers, with words nearly lost on the wind, but she heard.

It was all simply too much, and she felt the tremors start in her thighs, but fought to rein her peak in a little longer. Sliding her hand from his forearm all the way up to his chin, she lifted his face from the top of her bosom until he would meet her eyes. "I do love you," she said seriously, then punctuated the reminder with a deep, needy kiss.

Neither felt the need to speak further, and a rather helpful crate nearby proved to be an excellent equaliser and enabler. She was braced against the rough wood of the barn, unconcerned about the splinters no doubt trying valiantly to work though the leather of her gloves. She needed to hold tight to something, anything, to keep herself from flying apart as Zevran panted harshly against the nape of her neck, rocking into her with steadily increasing urgency.

Even through the haze of intense pleasure, she missed the feel of his smooth chest against her back, his teasing touches to her breasts, and a hundred other small comforts. What had begun as a quick romp had become something more serious, and despite the undeniable excitement and the freshness of their current union, she longed for the intimacy provided by their bedroom, even if only for a short while.

Then suddenly one of Zevran's hands was unclenching from her hip, trailing firmly up layers of drakeskin until finally entwining their fingers together. The tenderness of the gesture made her heart flutter— she could feel him nuzzling her hair, murmuring softly in Antivan— and with a sobbing cry she thrust her hips back and for a precious few moments, she was overwhelmed by the love, the passion, and the warmth.

AN: More Oghren coming up in Chp.11, because I am aware this wasn't enough of the scoundrel here. I hope I've managed him at least decently... I mean, he's a bit settled down now, and I hope it came across as realistic. I'm not used to writing dear Oghren, and it's made me all kinds of nervous.

I've been told more than once that Carran comes off as a bit mysterious. Ah.

Also, Amery likes to give people nicknames, which is a bad habit I have as well. Since (in my head) Keliani is pronounced like Kelly-AW-knee, "Ani" doesn't sound like "Annie," but rather "Aw-knee." If you like Annie, more power to you.

And for my final two points, I love drunk Alistair, and my new job is exhausting. There, I prefaced my brief foray into whining with something more cheerful. G'night folks.