A bit of a tonal change here, as I extract this story a little out of the last chapter's angst.
Flirting
Alistair
The walk back to the Dalish camp will be long, and they decide to follow the river to spare time. They part ways with the recently transformed humans, wishing them well, and then begin to trudge along the path they've set. Morrigan becomes a yellow-eyed wolf, disappearing into the foliage, and returns shortly afterwards, bearing a rabbit and warnings. "There are bears that way," she says, after returning to her human form, waving to their left. "They have new cubs. 'Twould be best to avoid them."
Morgana turns and gives her a smile, not seeing the surprise cross the witch's face - of course; it's not exactly like friendliness is her speciality. "Thank you, Morrigan." Morrigan nods brusquely with a half-muttered reply, returning her eyes to the road.
Morgana still seems drawn, eyes also fixed on the road ahead, until Leliana asks suddenly, a smile on her face, "So, what was your... opinion of Teagan?"
Oh, he really doesn't like the sound of this.
Morgana looks to her, frowning. "What?"
"He really does have the nicest eyes," Leliana continues, dreamily, her eyes quickly shifting to their brave leader, and now he understands - a bid to distract Morgana. Distract her with his uncle.
Seriously?
Morgana turns to her fully, frowning. "And while we've been engaging werewolves in combat, trying to prevent civil war, and curing the Arl, you've been thinking about this?"
"Yes," the bard continues, stepping closer to Morgana, the smile widening; she leans into her ear, and lowers her voice conspiratorially. "You see, he seemed rather... enchanted to meet you."
Morgana trips unceremoniously over a stone on the path with a loud curse, and he grabs her arm to keep her steady as she splutters, "W - What?"
He raises his eyebrows. Yes, he'd quite like to know what she means too.
"You did not see the way his eyes followed you out of the room?" Leliana smirks, her meaning clear.
What? Teagan... that? He absentmindedly finds himself doing the same, quickly dragging away his gaze, his face heating. No - definitely not "following"... and oh, Maker, he's doing it again, and she really ought to stop walking, or walk behind him, or something.He hears a small snort from behind him, and shoots Morrigan what he hopes is a death glare.
"And his... flirtations?"
Morgana looks at her, so surprised that it's actually comical. "He was flirting? I just... just asked him about his family..."
Yes. Yes, she did, and he took that and ran with it. She looks so.. young then, desperately trying to cover her naïveté. Remembering the stories from the templars, he chips in, "What, no-one ever... er, flirted with you at the Circle?"
Unfortunately, she catches the implication, and he gets ready to duck the fireball coming his way. Her expression is icy as she replies, "Mages' promiscuity is a lie spread by the Chantry." There's a pause, and she looks to the sky as she thinks. "Well, actually, a few of my friends, with others... They were stuck in a Tower with other willing mages..." Her cheeks begin to colour, the sensible Warden mask clattering to the ground, and he can't help the sympathy that rises in him. "I... didn't. Nothing like that. It always seemed a little... desperate."
He frowns. Does that mean she's also never...? He stops that thought before it can complete itself; why is he even asking himself this?
She drops back, falling into step beside him, her cheeks red, and mutters, "Look, I also heard... stories."
He looks at her in surprise. "Stories of... what, exactly?"
"The, er, the Chantry. Lots of repressed templars... and... sisters... and maybe other templars..." She raises a hand to her head, combing through blood-stained hair, in her discomfort.
It takes him a moment to understand, and his voice, when he finds it, is much louder than he intended. "What? I... no! It wasn't like that!"
"Ah. I see. Sorry."
There's a pause, and the laugh escapes before he thinks about it. "They gave the mages... the same stories?"
Her voice is a low mutter, and she refuses to look at him. "I thought you weren't exactly the type, but..." She finally looks up, shrugging, her voice false-bright. "I thought it was best to... er, check?"
He raises an eyebrow. "Riight. 'Check'." The smirk falls from his face as a thought occurs to him, and he murmurs, "Thank the Maker the assassin isn't here."
She emits a small half-laugh, pointing to a clearing ahead of them. "Camp?"
He nods, the heat finally beginning to drain from his cheeks. "Camp."