Drabble Age: Origins

1

"Wynne. My stomach hurts." Alistair's eyes are wide and piteous, and he clutches at his belly for emphasis.

Wynne cocks her head at him over the glow of the fire, and tuts in sympathy. "You poor dear. A nice cup of mint tea would help."

He nods and gazes wistfully over at the supplies. "I'm sure it would. But... the herbs are so far away, and it hurts so bad. I'd probably have to end up crawling to get them, and nobody wants to see that. Do you want to see that, Sten?"

Sten frowns, weighing the matter for a moment. "No," he pronounces solemnly. "I do not."

"Groveling in the dirt like the dog?" Morrigan sneers at the prospect, even as Barkspawn whines in protest. "I can think of nothing more fitting."

Wynne tries to keep her smile from showing as she rises and stretches. "Very well. I will make you some tea, lest you perish without it."

"You know," he calls to her retreating back, "I've heard that stories about griffins are incredibly restorative."

She turns. "You are an utterly shameless boy."

"And you are utterly my favorite person."