{Ochs = literally translates at "the ox". Medieval longsword stance - a block.}
Ochs
Morgana
She walks up to the pot, fervently hoping she'll be able to look Alistair in the eye, and peers into it. "Stew?" she asks, slightly disbelievingly.
"Yes, stew," he replies, giving it one last stir, frowning. "Just about done, too." He passes her a bowl without a word, pouring some of... whatever he's made into it with a call of, "Food, anybody?"
She stares at it, poking it with a spoon from the supply Eamon gave them for the journey. "Is that... cheese?"
He nods, fetching himself a portion and settling down on the ground beside her. "Goes with everything."
She's rather uncertain about that, but, after taking a cautious spoonful, she begins her meal in earnest. She looks up to see him watching her wolf down the food, an eyebrow raised - she's barely aware of the taste, and thinks that's probably a good thing - and cringes, slowing down slightly, eyes still half on him.
He gives her a smile, shaking his head. "Trust me, I know the feeling."
She returns it, remembering what he said about the Grey Warden appetite, and the weight of her own awkwardness lifts from her shoulders as they both unceremoniously eat their food, by now used to the Leliana's horrified stare. Morgana only stops to look up with a brief smile as it begins to rain.
"Ochs," he sighs to her exasperatedly the next morning, showing her with his own sword and shaking his head with a sigh when she again fails to achieve the stance. "Come on, you've done this plenty of times before."
Leaning her sword against the pile of firewood at the edge of camp, she stifles a yawn, and he smirks. "Why do I get the feeling you're not wholeheartedly devoted to training this morning?"
She glares at him, picking her sword back up and settling into an almost-ochs. "Pretty much," he murmurs, cocking his head. "Now, pretend I'm a... hurlock or something."
This part she knows, and she smiles sweetly at him, pausing, before brutally lunging.
He dodges it easily, shaking his head once again and chiding her, sing-song, "Well, look who's overconfident this morning."
They circle each other, him still grinning, alone in the morning light. She parries his half-hearted jab, aiming for his stomach, but he blocks it, quickly taking hold of her sword arm; she makes a small noise of frustration, and he lets it go, backing away slowly before gesturing to her. "You can do better than that."
She stares at him, still moving, her breathing calming, slowing, until it's almost in sync with the clank of her plate-booted step.
His movement is so fast she almost doesn't catch it, his sword aiming for her kneecaps, but she steps aside just in time, placing a foot to the back of his calf and pushing; he's caught off balance, looking at her in surprise as he falls. She doesn't expect his laugh and swift grab of her arm, and falls into the mud of last night's rain with a loud "oof!" and a muttered curse, her sword dropping to the ground. Winded, she finally looks up to see her comrade lying next to her, in a similar state, raising his head to give her a mud-splattered grin and still gently holding her arm. Ignoring the fact that their faces and their armour will probably never be clean again, she exhales, the two of them smiling at each other for a long moment.
Then he clambers to his feet, sword held aside, offering a gauntleted hand. "Nothing broken?"
She takes it, his fingers warm on her own, looking up at him. The silence stretches. Her throat is dry, her head uncomfortably light, and she sees him swallow, his smile wavering to be replaced by something unfamiliar, his eyes never leaving hers; then she shakes her head, blaming it on dizziness and standing - the moment is broken, and she's unsure whether to be relieved or horribly disappointed.
"Perhaps a little bruised," she replies false-brightly, picking up her sword to sheathe it and looking at the forest around them. She scratches the back of her neck, which is suddenly hot as her cheeks. "We should probably wake Leliana and Morrigan."
He nods, running a hand awkwardly through his hair; then Morgana loudly calls the other women, and, as Leliana steps out of her tent, taking in the camp, the odd air between them dissipates. He offers her a tentative smile, moving to their pack to run through the supplies.