A Favor for a Favor

Avorra sat down in the outside dining section of one of Val Royeaux's beloved taverns. She wanted the fresh air compared to being cooped up inside. The waitress was quick to return with her drink: raspberry tea served cold. Simple but delicious. Avorra took a sip, then placed her drink back on the round table intended to seat two. She waited for her letter recipient that she'd sent a raven for not too long ago. She figured she still lived in close to Val Royeaux in the clutches of Orlais, but she wasn't entirely sure. The recent Blights may have changed everything. Then again, everyone around her were tending to their day-by-days as if nothing was going on in the outside world. Ignorance was bliss.

Today she wore her hedge witch garb; barely enough clothes to cover her skin. A bra to cover her delicates, an open half-robe that exposed it along with her stomach, a belt-cape that fell to her knees but exposed her covered thighs, and pants that were ripped and faded in various places. This, however, is not how she presented herself to the world around her. She used illusory magic to appear to be wearing a long-sleeved white dress of silk, matching her pale skin and snow-white hair. The only thing exposed on this were her shoulders. The Pale Witch was undeniably beautiful in either wardrobe.

Soon Avorra began to grow bored, and started messing with the people around her. Simple things, such as waving her hand under the table to knock one's cup over. Or peering into their thoughts, searching for their secrets, the sources of their gossip.

Morrigan didn't oft dine within taverns, but sometimes she was seated in a corner, studying the people around her. It was still her favorite past-time, and she'd likely never give it up. Some people bird-watched... others, well, they people-watched.

She always found an interesting character or two, especially those using magic to hide who or what they were. Fascinating; though Morrigan was without her magic, she could still sense magic. She just couldn't act on it. It was almost as annoying as the five-year-old that was born from the resurrection.

But this magician was blatant with their use of magic; knocking cups over, and other visible pranks, that had Morrigan studying the people in the tavern just a bit closer, until she finally picked out a face she didn't know.

And she moved across the tavern, to settle in a seat across from the stranger.

Playing with peoples' heads isn't very nice.