Her head was pounding to a degree that Morrigan almost called for Mother to do something about it. However, Mother wasn’t there. Even if Flemeth had been, there was no assurance she would have done anything about it anyway, the old biddy would say that pain was a lesson, and to handle it on her own.
The drafty tent she was in smelled of leather and wet dog, as well as some sort of flower. That at least narrowed down what tent she was in. Morrigan almost would have preferred Erin and Zevran’s, as the assassin, for all his many faults, was a somewhat dependable ‘surgeon’, able to patch a body back together in ways that her poultices and potions could not. It was a curious skill and she did find it interesting, as she had had occasion to see the effects in action of him reattaching the loutish buffoon Alistair’s finger once. Of course her limited skills with healing magic and her unguents had done the business of waking the flesh and such, but it was the fine skill with a very small blade, fire, and stitches that linked tiny blood vessels together, ligaments sutured in their proper courses. Perhaps after the Blight she may very well go to one of those vast libraries he described when talking about things that had nothing to do with sex or killing. Knowledge was power after all, and there was little enough of it they had come across in Ferelden.
Withholding a groan of discomfort, Morrigan took stock inside the dark tent. Her injuries were just extensive enough to make her quite miserable, and the tight burning on her calf indicated that yes, that drake truly had gained a good hold on her leg in that last fight.
Beside her there was a shifting and squirming, Leliana’s voice intruding as Morrigan fought to keep a good hold on her senses as her head swam, “Just a moment, here -” a cup pressed to her lips as a steadying hand raised her head, “- drink this. Zevran said it will help you rest and dull the pain.”
“The last of the honey was used up on your burns and to pack the wounds,” Leliana explained quietly, a waterskin then pressed to her lips to wash the taste out. Rather sure hands tucked and settled the blankets around her, “Is there anything I can get you? Should I fetch Zevran?”
Morrigan grimaced in the dark, not wanting the extra attention and fussing. From anyone. Really she just wanted to find a hole to crawl into and wait out the healing process. Bear shape would be good for hibernating - except the irritating problems of needing to gain enough fat stores, the fact that it was summer, the marauding darkspawn, and, most troublesome, the stretching her body would go through to shapeshift.
“A lack of sermons would be more than I could hope for,” gritting her teeth. “Or vexatious questions. I’m fine and don’t need that elf poking and prodding me.” Or Leliana prodding her as well, but the damned Orlesian was sharing a tent and bedroll with her for whatever reason. It all involved far too much touching, the vacuous minded chit remained on her side, facing Morrigan by the feel of things. It also seemed like Leliana would insist upon providing some sort of something, and if it would keep her quiet, she would go ahead and say something, anything. “If you simply must do something, a pillow would be...wouldn’t be turned away.”
“Ser ‘Ound’s on watch, so the only pillow that might be -” beginning to explain, before there was a pause, and suddenly Morrigan found herself shifted, far, far, far too much touching going on, the tunic Leliana wore all at once was beneath Morrigan. While still being worn. “- there. The only other pillow is me, since our packs are either empty because of doing laundry or filled only with hard, lumpy things.”
Morrigan had gone stiff, awkwardly cradled and surrounded by muscular legs, belly and chest beneath her back as well as her head. And arms were around her, keeping her in place. Feeling trapped and uncomfortable, she shuddered, rolling within the confines instinctually, a momentary thought of fleeing sending her into a panic. No one touched her like this! Not even that...that bumbling...insipid...filthy...Chasind man she had bedded once out of curiosity! It was too much, too disgusting! Too much of a trap!
All those lumps and milkfed body parts were soft and squished, trapping her like the thick mud of the Korcari Wilds, but there was also a great deal of muscle beneath all that, and it came into play, Leliana’s arms wrapping around her more firmly, “Get comfortable, lay down, stop it - you’ll tear your stitches.” A hand pressed to her shoulder, the other to her head, forcing her to lay her head down. “There, that’s not so bad,” fingers ran over her crown and cheek, making her earrings jingle, and Morrigan sought to calm her breathing.
Beneath her ear she became aware of a steady thumping as she lay on her ‘good’ side between Leliana’s legs, the dip of her waist fitted over the warmth of groin. There was also the langor from the concoction the Orlesian had fed her, tugging at Morrigan, and as her startlement faded, she swallowed thickly. This was most uncommon and strange, but the soft cradle Leliana’s body formed was strangely...comfortable. Like finding a perfect burrow to lay on that held dips that would be supportive. Nose wrinkling, she shifted once more with less urgency, and made use of the tall woman’s lower leg to support her own wounded one. When that seemed to fit as well, she sighed, the pressure taken off, the relief rather surprising. With a yawn, Morrigan scooted in place for a moment almost - almost - forgetting it was a person rather than a luxurious mattress as she was dragged down to healing sleep.
Re: Leliana/Morrigan: The Wasp and the Kitten 2/?
Her head was pounding to a degree that Morrigan almost called for Mother to do something about it. However, Mother wasn’t there. Even if Flemeth had been, there was no assurance she would have done anything about it anyway, the old biddy would say that pain was a lesson, and to handle it on her own.
The drafty tent she was in smelled of leather and wet dog, as well as some sort of flower. That at least narrowed down what tent she was in. Morrigan almost would have preferred Erin and Zevran’s, as the assassin, for all his many faults, was a somewhat dependable ‘surgeon’, able to patch a body back together in ways that her poultices and potions could not. It was a curious skill and she did find it interesting, as she had had occasion to see the effects in action of him reattaching the loutish buffoon Alistair’s finger once. Of course her limited skills with healing magic and her unguents had done the business of waking the flesh and such, but it was the fine skill with a very small blade, fire, and stitches that linked tiny blood vessels together, ligaments sutured in their proper courses. Perhaps after the Blight she may very well go to one of those vast libraries he described when talking about things that had nothing to do with sex or killing. Knowledge was power after all, and there was little enough of it they had come across in Ferelden.
Withholding a groan of discomfort, Morrigan took stock inside the dark tent. Her injuries were just extensive enough to make her quite miserable, and the tight burning on her calf indicated that yes, that drake truly had gained a good hold on her leg in that last fight.
Beside her there was a shifting and squirming, Leliana’s voice intruding as Morrigan fought to keep a good hold on her senses as her head swam, “Just a moment, here -” a cup pressed to her lips as a steadying hand raised her head, “- drink this. Zevran said it will help you rest and dull the pain.”
Downing it, Morrigan coughed, “Blast! ‘Tis foul indeed!”
“The last of the honey was used up on your burns and to pack the wounds,” Leliana explained quietly, a waterskin then pressed to her lips to wash the taste out. Rather sure hands tucked and settled the blankets around her, “Is there anything I can get you? Should I fetch Zevran?”
Morrigan grimaced in the dark, not wanting the extra attention and fussing. From anyone. Really she just wanted to find a hole to crawl into and wait out the healing process. Bear shape would be good for hibernating - except the irritating problems of needing to gain enough fat stores, the fact that it was summer, the marauding darkspawn, and, most troublesome, the stretching her body would go through to shapeshift.
“A lack of sermons would be more than I could hope for,” gritting her teeth. “Or vexatious questions. I’m fine and don’t need that elf poking and prodding me.” Or Leliana prodding her as well, but the damned Orlesian was sharing a tent and bedroll with her for whatever reason. It all involved far too much touching, the vacuous minded chit remained on her side, facing Morrigan by the feel of things. It also seemed like Leliana would insist upon providing some sort of something, and if it would keep her quiet, she would go ahead and say something, anything. “If you simply must do something, a pillow would be...wouldn’t be turned away.”
“Ser ‘Ound’s on watch, so the only pillow that might be -” beginning to explain, before there was a pause, and suddenly Morrigan found herself shifted, far, far, far too much touching going on, the tunic Leliana wore all at once was beneath Morrigan. While still being worn. “- there. The only other pillow is me, since our packs are either empty because of doing laundry or filled only with hard, lumpy things.”
Morrigan had gone stiff, awkwardly cradled and surrounded by muscular legs, belly and chest beneath her back as well as her head. And arms were around her, keeping her in place. Feeling trapped and uncomfortable, she shuddered, rolling within the confines instinctually, a momentary thought of fleeing sending her into a panic. No one touched her like this! Not even that...that bumbling...insipid...filthy...Chasind man she had bedded once out of curiosity! It was too much, too disgusting! Too much of a trap!
All those lumps and milkfed body parts were soft and squished, trapping her like the thick mud of the Korcari Wilds, but there was also a great deal of muscle beneath all that, and it came into play, Leliana’s arms wrapping around her more firmly, “Get comfortable, lay down, stop it - you’ll tear your stitches.” A hand pressed to her shoulder, the other to her head, forcing her to lay her head down. “There, that’s not so bad,” fingers ran over her crown and cheek, making her earrings jingle, and Morrigan sought to calm her breathing.
Beneath her ear she became aware of a steady thumping as she lay on her ‘good’ side between Leliana’s legs, the dip of her waist fitted over the warmth of groin. There was also the langor from the concoction the Orlesian had fed her, tugging at Morrigan, and as her startlement faded, she swallowed thickly. This was most uncommon and strange, but the soft cradle Leliana’s body formed was strangely...comfortable. Like finding a perfect burrow to lay on that held dips that would be supportive. Nose wrinkling, she shifted once more with less urgency, and made use of the tall woman’s lower leg to support her own wounded one. When that seemed to fit as well, she sighed, the pressure taken off, the relief rather surprising. With a yawn, Morrigan scooted in place for a moment almost - almost - forgetting it was a person rather than a luxurious mattress as she was dragged down to healing sleep.