Morrigan comes to the conclusion that this was a mistake.

She looks around for someone to share her revelation, sighs and rolls her eyes when she finds only the Warden's hound nearby. The mongrel stares at her, tongue lolling out of its mouth in one long streak of pink.

"This is a mistake," Morrigan admits, not content to keep it to herself. Even if it meant speaking to a dog. Better the dog than Alistair. "Clearly this Warden...is unsuitable for whatever my mother is planning."

And her mother had plans. Although clearly she hadn't thought them through if she thought this Warden could be any kind of benefit.

"She seemed suitable in the beginning." A Dalish woman, new to the Grey Wardens, yes, there had been possibilities. Maybe even a sense of kinship, rooted in being outcaste. Now though, now Morrigan wonders if maybe her mother's herbs did something to the Warden. "She insists on talking to everyone. Every refugee, cursed guard, and dirty child. If she sees them, she has to talk to them."

The dog woofs, and she has the feeling she's being mocked. Something about the eyes. Sly around the edges, evidenced by the half dead hare she found in her pack the other night.

Morrigan throws her hands up because she has stooped so low that she is talking to a dog of all things, only to scowl when the sleeves of her dress pull tight around her shoulders.

That was another thing. What was she even wearing? Her clothes had been perfectly suitable for her purposes. Only the Warden had kept staring with that little wrinkle between her eyebrows that Morrigan is coming to realize means she's contemplating things. The Warden's contemplations had eventually led to shoving this rather confining dress...robe type thing...into Morrigan's hands with a muttered, "In case you get shot."

Clearly the Warden was not allowed to contemplate things anymore.

It isn't as if Morrigan has never been shot before. It hurts, obviously, but it's nothing a vicious fire blast followed up with a healing spell can't fix. When pressed for the reason behind the Warden's insistence on changing Morrigan's wardrobe, the Warden had simply flushed and made a comment about the weather and how it was getting cold.

Morrigan didn't really understand its connection with the monstrosity she was currently wearing. Her other clothes had kept her warm enough. Maybe it was a Dalish thing.

"I don't understand why we are still here," she grumbles. "Our goal is obvious. We need to stop this infernal Blight. A feat that requires allies, which we are most certainly not getting while the Warden stands around talking to every crying child and whining refugee. It's not her - or our - job to solve everybody's problems."

She wants to set something on fire. It would be soothing to watch the flames spread, devouring dry wood until everything was charred black and smoke filled the air. The face the Warden favors as a weapon, the one with the big eyes and her mouth pulled down at the corners, might be worth enduring if it meant getting run out of town.

An interesting idea, except she doesn't particularly like the Warden's disappointed face. It tends to make her feel guilty, her chest squeezing tight, something she pretends is the dress's fault because anything else makes her uncomfortable.

She wishes she were back in the Wilds, not necessarily with her mother, just back where she understands things better. Where the world is all about the strong taking from the weak, not out of spite, but because that's what happens.

They're confusing, the Warden and Alistair. Well, not so much Alistair, he's more annoying. For a time she considered sleeping with him but changed her mind, pretty sure it would have involved a lot of unnecessary effort. Plus she might have ended up killing him. The Warden wouldn't have liked that.

Of course the Warden doesn't seem to like a lot of things. Mostly things that come as second nature to Morrigan. She isn't sure what that means, but she has a feeling she'll have plenty of time to figure it out.

Morrigan looks down to see the dog offering her a stick. She eyes it and the string of drool hanging off of it with disgust. "No. Absolutely not."

The dog whines.

She glares. "I said no. Go find your master if you want to play."

Another whine, the blocky head turning with drooping ears to where the Warden is attempting conversation with some pathetic specimen that might have been a person under all the dirt and unwashed clothing. Looking closer, Morrigan wonders if the refugee is dead. Something about the slumped form seems off to her.

From the way Alistair is fidgeting behind the Warden's back, she bets Alistair thinks the same. She wonders how long it will take the Warden to figure it out.

When she looks back the dog, Balto or some other ridiculous name, has sat down on his haunches, clearly working her new ability to feel guilt for all its worth. She sighs, by the gods she's gotten soft. "Once. I will throw your disgusting stick once."

The wriggling is really quite ridiculous for a war hound the size of a pony. The stick is damp with slobber and she regrets touching it instantly, throws it away from her more out of disgust than intent.

She watches the dog race off after it, wipes her hand on the rough too confining skirt of her dress and once more contemplates how nice the town would look with half of it on fire.