Alistair, Morrigan - the (word of your own choosing) is strong in this one.
"Oghren!" Morrigan exclaimed angrily. "Do you mind!"
"Yes, I do mind, actually. That wasn't me," the dwarf pointed out. "I'd give it at least an eight on a scale of one to ten though."
Morrigan snorted, and continued walking, picking up the pace, the others perforce hurrying along after her. She stopped abruptly, frowning around at the landscape, trying to pick out the path back to their camp.
There was a short reverberant sound, and a truly pungent odour enveloped them, drawing a curse from Morrigan and a laugh from the dwarf, as he waved one hand in front of his face. Alistair turned bright red.
"Alistair!" Morrigan exclaimed.
"Wasn't me. It was the dog," Alistair hurriedly exclaimed.
Morrigan grabbed Alistair by the arm and dragged him several steps, away from the lingering noxious cloud. "You've been feeding him cheese again, haven't you?" she demanded angrily.
"Errr… yes?"
"You've been toldthe effect it has on him!" she snapped. "More than once, as I recall!"
"Errr… yes. But he likes it so much!"
Another particularly juicy-sounding fart sounded. Morrigan glared at Alistair, then down at the dog, then turned and stalked even further away. She turned, and pointed a finger at Alistair. "Youcan be the one to keep him away from camp this evening. And clean up any messes he makes!" she ordered, then turned and continued on to camp, radiating offended anger.
Oghren walked by the man and dog, still laughing. "I'll let the Warden know you two are camping out tonight," he said jovially, and shook his head as he walked away. "The gas is strong in this one."
Anders and Isabela, bonding with each other.
"So she shot you down too, hmmm?" Isabela asked, leaning against the bar beside where Anders stood hunched over a glass of what Corff chose to call whiskey, though anyone else would have called it back alley rotgut.
"Yes," Anders said miserably, then gave Isabela a startled look. "Too?"
"Surely it's no surprise to you that I was interested in Hawke as well?"
Anders sighed. "I suppose not. She… she told me she was sorry, but she has a thing for elves. I suppose she means Fenris."
"Fenris? No… she shot him down two days ago!" Isabela said, surprised.
They exchanged a look. "Merrill," they both exclaimed.
"Damn…" Isabela muttered. "I was thinking of trying for her. I suppose I can strike that plan."
Anders laughed. "Well, there's always Ser Broody-Pants."
Isabela smirked. "Not so broody once you get those pants off him, just so you know," she said, and winked.
Arishok, Hawke, Fenris - drinking songs
It had seemed a good idea at the time, but then as exhausted as Hawke was after a day on the Wounded Coast, and as worried as he'd been over what the Arishok's reaction would be to the latest round of qunari dead at Hawke's hands, anything that didn't involve the Arishok tearing him limb from limb or doing anything nastily bloody with that great sword of his had sounded good. He could no longer remember who had suggested the game, though he had a sneaking suspicion that it was he himself who had suggested replacing the stones on the three-sided board with shot glasses full of something interesting.
And now, some two hours of furious play later, he could no longer remember the rules of the game, and who was winning or loosing, but it didn't seem to matter. He also wasn't sure whose turn it was any more, but that didn't matter either, since the three of them were too busy singing to pay much attention to their game.
"…I'm a Tal'Vashoth and I'm okay…" The Arishok had a surprisingly pleasant voice, deep and gravelly, and if he hadn't been the size of a grizzly bear and undoubtedly hung like a bull, Hawke wouldn't have minded attempting a closer acquaintance with the source of such a lovely voice. He would just have to comfort himself with the thought of trying to get Fenris, some time later in the evening, when they finally went home, to make all the lovely sounds his fevered imagination was filling his head with.
Fenris, too, was singing quite beautifully. "Because the old black rum's got a hold on me, like a dog wrapped round my leg…"
Hawke just hoped his own voice was up to snuff. "…but the hedgehog can never be buggered at all!" he sang loudly.
They sounded just lovely, he was sure.