Another long day of walking, broken only by a stop for lunch, and a brief encounter with a small group of darkspawn, easily defeated. Morrigan helped set up the firepit to reheat the pot of never-ending stew, then slipped off into the surrounding forest, feeling a sense of relief as she transformed into a hawk and winged up into the sky, enjoying the pleasure of flight.

She soared for a while, taking advantage of the late-afternoon thermals to climb high into the sky, gliding effortlessly from up-draft to up-draft before folding her wings and dropping down, scanning the nearby clearings for small game. She saw a pair of pheasants burst from the edge of the forest, winging up across one clearing, and altered her path, aiming for the lead bird. She hit it at speed, talons sinking into its neck and back, carrying it down out of the sky with her to thump down on the ground. She quickly lowered her head, biting through its spine to finish it off, before hopping off its back and looking warily around. She was startled to see the second pheasant thrashing on the ground nearby, an arrow through its neck She mantled her wings, preparing to abandon her prey and fly off, then recognized the elf stepping out from under the trees. She lowered her wings, watching Arren warily as he walked toward the pheasant he'd shot down, then abruptly made up her mind and changed back to human form. Arren froze, a look of dumbfounded surprise on his face.

"Morrigan!" he stuttered out after a moment.

"'Tis I," she agreed, bowing her head regally. "Take my kill back to camp too, if you please," she asked, gesturing to the pheasant in the grass at her feet. "I will see if I can get another."

"You... can change shape?"

"Yes, as you saw," she said, then changed back to a hawk and launched herself back into the sky, circling the clearing once, pleased to see the awestruck look on his face as he watched her.

She returned to camp on foot some time later, carrying a good-sized goose; more bird than a hawk her size really should have stooped on, but with human intelligence driving her wings and talons, and human muscle to deal with carrying it afterwards, a quite acceptable target. Leliana made pleased sounds about it, and settled down to plucking it, saying she would roast it over the coals, so they could have spit-roast goose along with the stew tonight, and leftover goose as at least one meal the next day. Having seen how much the two wardens could eat in a single sitting, Morrigan was dubious that there would be more than one meal's worth of meat leftover from the bird.

She stopped by the stream that ran along one edge of the clearing where they were camped – whenever possible, Arren liked to stop near running water – and washed her hands clean before returning to her own separate campsite, setting up and starting alight her own fire as the last of the sun was fading away. She settled down beside her fire, writing in her journal by its light.

The crunch of boot soles on gravel made her look up, and she smiled to see Arren approaching, carrying two plates tonight, both holding a generous serving of stew topped with some pieces of succulent roast goose. "Mind if I join you?" he asked.

"Not all all," she said gravely, setting aside her journal before accepting her plate – one with a considerably smaller serving than that heaped on his own – and nodded at the ground nearby. "Make yourself comfortable."

He sunk down to sit cross-legged nearby, and they both ate in silence for several minutes.

"This goose is very good," he said after a while. "Thank you for helping with the hunting."

She smiled, and shrugged. "'Tis nothing," she said, feigning disinterest, but pleased despite herself at his words. Strange how enjoyable she could find simple words of gratitude. Of course, it was not like she was used to receiving such; Flemeth would have been more likely to have something querulous to saw about the thinness of the bird, or the time wasted in hunting meat that should have been spent more profitably on some other pursuit. Though of course failure to provide meat for the pot would also have been reason for criticism; if there was one thing she knew well from her years with the old woman, it was that she was rarely pleased by anything her daughter might do.

"So... um. Shapechanging. That's a pretty interesting capability. I know some Keepers can do it, but that was the first time I'd actually seen it," Arren said, looking at her curiously.

Morrigan nodded. "Flemeth taught the skill to me. It has its uses. Templars rarely pay attention to birds overhead, and it is far easier to hunt on two wings or four legs than two feet."

"Four legs? You can take other forms than the hawk, then?" Arren asked, sounding fascinated.

"Yes. Wolf and bear. I can also become a giant spider, and a swarm of stinging insects."

Arren blinked. "A swarm of... how does that even work!"

Morrigan smiled, a touch smugly. "With great difficulty. It is not too troublesome as long as you can keep the swarm compact, but if circumstances force you to spread out, then getting all the... bits... back together again afterwards can be a headache. Literally. The smaller a form is, the harder it is to maintain the shape, and to think rationally while confined to it. A single insect would be well-nigh impossible to hold, unless one was phenomenally powerful. Even division into a large swarm is bothersome; you must divide your self, not just your physical being but your mental self as well, into many bodies, many little minds all working together. Thinking becomes very laborious when you are a swarm; the form has its uses, but it is best to only resort to it in an emergency."

"Impressive," Arren said quietly, with a tone in his voice that told Morrigan he meant the word sincerely. She smiled at him again, pleased by his admiration.

"Speaking of impressive, that was a good shot with your bow this afternoon," she said.

Arren shrugged, and smiled a little. "Not as impressive as your kills."

"Oh, pah! The only impressive part of mine was the form in which I did it. 'Tis far easier, to my thinking, to take a bird on the wing when one is a faster bird, with human intelligence guiding your talons, than to pierce that same bird using little more than sticks and string and a bit of sharp stone."

Arren laughed, and grinned. "I suppose my arrows would miss less if they were guided right to the target, yes," he agreed. "Though I do well enough with my sticks and stones."

Morrigan snorted. "Do not take offence that I named them so. In truth 'tis a skill I am somewhat jealous of; I have little skills with aught save magic. Oh, I can sew enough to keep myself dressed and shod, cook enough to keep myself fed, but I can do little more with a knife than skin game or shape leather, and nothing at all with sword or bow or sling."

"It is not skill at arms alone that make a man or a woman," Arren pointed out gallantly. "Even among the Dalish, there are those who do not bear weapons."

Morrigan nodded. "Yes. But that does not make me any less jealous of your skills with a bow. I made one once, you know."

"A bow?" Arren asked, sounding interested.

"Yes. When I was a child. I had seen the Chasind using them, and I was curious. I am afraid it was a very poor bow, and my arrows little more than pointed sticks with a split cut in one end. And no fletching; the longest shot I even took with it went no more than three feet, all told. But I had fun playing with it for a few days, pretending I was a bow-maid."

Arren smiled. "I would have liked to see that," he said gravely. "I can remember some of the small children among the Dalish playing with similar ill-made toys."

Morrigan smiled back. "Did you perhaps play with such yourself, then?"

Arren laughed. "Yes. And got in trouble for cutting myself when the knife slipped when I was trying to nock an arrow – look, you can still see the scar, there," he said, holding out his left hand and pointing at the knuckle of his first finger, where a faint white line could indeed still be seen against his tanned skin.

Morrigan peered interestedly at it and nodded, then returned to eating her meal. She smiled faintly to herself, remembering how much fun she'd had playing in the woods with her bow, at least until Flemeth had come across it one day and snapped it over her knee, scolding Morrigan and informing her that there were only two lengths of wood she should hold in her hand; a mage's staff, and a man's. It had been quite a few years later before she'd finally learned what mother had meant by the second, though the first she'd been forced to sit down and make for herself that very day.

That first staff had been almost equally as poor a representation of a magical implement as her bow had been of a hunter's weapon, but it had served her well enough while she learned enough to make a better one, that staff in turn being later supplanted by a better one in turn. It had been long years until Flemeth was satisfied with her skills at making the dratted things; she'd insisted on breaking them at intervals, too, forcing Morrigan to fashion new ones, saying that she was best off never becoming too attached to any particular staff, able to abandon and later make a new one at a moment's notice. It did make a sort of sense, Morrigan supposed – a man or woman walking with a staff was easily suspected of being an apostate. A man or woman with a belt knife and some useful odds and ends in among their belongings – strips of rough-cured leather, interesting shells, animal teeth, a large feather or two – was just another barbarian from the wilds. It took very little work to use the latter to produce a usable sample of the former.

She glanced at Arren, busily eating a piece of goose, and found her thoughts turning inexorably to the second 'length of wood'. She'd never slept with an elf, only human males, mostly of the large, muscular, and stupid variety. As soon as she'd been old enough, her mother had started teaching her about how to pleasure a man – a convenient and almost ridiculously easy way to bend many men to her will, Flemeth had told her, saying that once you got a man thinking with his cock, he usually forgot to think his brain. Learning how to take her own pleasure from the act had been of secondary importance in Flemeth's opinion, though Morrigan had noted that Flemeth rarely stinted herself in that department.

She knew that elves were made differently than men – more than just the lack of stature and the pointed ears. Some of the differences she could see for herself – his slender build, a subtly different shaping to his torso and face, the added length to his fingers and toes. She wondered what other differences were hidden under those tight-fitting leathers he wore, and had to admit she was more than a little curious about the answer.

Perhaps one of these evenings she'd take the opportunity to find out, she thought, and smiled warmly at Arren as he finished his meal and looked up at her.

He smiled back, flushing just slightly. "Well. I should get back," he said.

She nodded, and handed her empty plate back to him as he rose. He paused a moment, as if trying to think of something else to say, then nodded. "Sleep well, Morrigan."

"And you as well, Arren," she said gravely, and watched him walk away.

He did have a rather nice ass, she found herself thinking. And then found herself wondering how human women looked to elvhen eyes – attractive, or distressingly oversized?