Things at the camp were quiet. Leliana, nug in her arms, was curled up in her tent, reading aloud to Zevran, who polished his daggers. Morrigan and Anwen were set apart, whispering to each other and laughing, while vegetables cooked over their own fire. Sten stood sentry beside Eddie the dog, and Wynne was darning socks, humming under her breath. 

Azry herself was sitting by Alistair, watching him stir the broth for the night.
"Not much meat in that," she commented. 

Alistair smirked. "I heard that too much meat isn't good for elves," he drawled, giving her a wink. Azry threw a shoe at him.

Truly, it felt like a peaceful night. For once.