Morrigan hadn't the slightest clue where she was either, but she was alive and well (debatable) and she had her son. The most terrifying moments of her life hadn't been the battle with Corypheus' pet, in her dragon form, but rather when Flemeth had stolen the Old God soul from Kieran - had reached for him with her gnarled hands, and Morrigan wanted nothing more than to chop them off.
Still, when she found herself in an open field with Kieran by her side, her staff strapped to her back and a bag of supplies (and coins she didn't recognize), she kept going with the intent to obtain answers. She just didn't expect the answers to come in the form of familiar faces and lost memories.
Oh yes. Back during those long-gone days of tents and crackling campfires, burning sage, the smoke of it permeating the air and useful for keeping annoying insects away (did she mean actual insects or her companions? Hmmm). Listening to Leliana talk about rainbows and the Maker's love, Zevran giving her a headache, Sten barely saying two words to anyone, Oghren leering and making foul comments about bedding her which made her want to retch - not to mention his drunken, alcohol-tainted breath could incinerate a field of the hardiest weeds rather easily just by exhaling.
A ragtag crew of misfits, one that had saved Thedas before a hole got ripped open in the sky and demons shat out. Heartwarming.
"Just like old times, then," she noted as she approached - her words, the accent which curled around them, always tended to make her sound imperious. It was difficult to tell when Morrigan was teasing (she rarely did) and perhaps she preferred the mystery. "...Kieran, don't touch."
That was added to the young boy, who was examining a green pipe - he looked curious, and was about to crawl inside.