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Morrigan asks Evrion what his full name is, out of the blue. He’s immediately suspicious. “Why?” he squints, remembering the superstitions.
She rolls her eyes at the way he’s instinctively raising his shield arm over himself. “I simply wish to know your middle name.“
“I’m not telling you.”
“Evrion, tis but a question. You ask me them every day.”
“And mine are harmless. What do you need my full name for? What are you going to do to me?”
“Get to know you better,” Morrigan says incredulously. They’ve shared tents and bedrolls for weeks, as far as she’s concerned they know well enough about each other; still, all that, and he won’t share this trivial thing? “If you like, I can scare it out of Alistair instead. I’ve no doubts you told him what it is.”
“Maker, Morrigan,” Evrion gripes, lowering his arm and looking embarrassed. “It’s Fearchar. Evrion Fearchar Cousland.”
“Thank you,” the witch smirks, and turns her attention back to her book. No doubt the Warden is sitting there wide-eyed, heart thumping, thinking of all the things she could do with the information.
Morrigan has to give Evrion credit, though. She did need it for a spell.