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Oghren stoops down and plucks a milky white pebble from the rough sand of the Storm Coast shore. He definitely does not look at the constantly rolling, moving, waves just beyond, and occupies himself with brushing off the sand. "Hmm..." he says, then in a satisfied tone, "Ah. that's a good one."

"Do durgen'len EAT stones, then?" a young voice asks behind him.

Oghren snorts. He's tempted to pop the pebble in his mouth and hide it under his tongue. Elves are fun to tease, and the Dalish recruits are particularly easy to mess with, since they grow up so insular. But he refrains when he hears Velanna grumble.

"Don't trust a THING this one says about the durgen'len, child."

Oghren looks over his shoulder and grins at his fellow Grey Wardens as he pockets the pretty little stone. "You haven't told young Varrien all about dwarf babies yet, Velanna?"

"Shut up," the Dalish mage grumbles.

"My kid likes to get letters and tales about where I've been," Oghren says, picking up his axe again and hefting it to his shoulder. "Ain't got a lick of Stone Sense, poor thing, but Nugget likes pretty rocks, too."

As he continues walking down the shore, Oghren hears Varrien mutter, "He has a kid? Someone actually... with him?"

"I heard that!" Oghren calls back. "Velanna, Sigrun, Nathaniel - give Varrien your packs! We got ourselves a two-legged bronto for the rest of today's march!"

Over the Dalish recruit's protests in Elvhen, Velanna can be heard laughing, "Well, you shouldn't have insulted his wife!"

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"Oghren," the Warden-Commander said, in a quiet tone.

Oghren ignored them, stepping to the side so that they were no longer blocking his path. What remained of his warrior's honor chafed at the disrespect he was showing, but his innate fractious nature was needled when the Warden-Commander took a step to the side and blocked him again.

"You gonna let me mail my letter," Oghren rumbled, "or you wanna read it first?"

They looked surprised at the question. Oghren realized, as they darted a glance at the envelope clutched in his hand, that they hadn't even seen it at first. He cleared his throat and tucked his hand out of sight behind his leg.

"No. I... I only wanted to speak to you a moment."

"Then spill it!" Oghren exclaimed gruffly.

"Thank you!" the words burst out of the Warden-Commander, probably louder than they intended. When they saw Oghren's surprise, they smiled and repeated more quietly, "Thank you."

"What for?"

"For coming back. For staying. I know you worry about being... enough. And measuring up to your own standards." Oghren looked away, and the Warden-Commander put a hand on his shoulder. "You ARE enough. You're a good friend and I'm proud to know you."

"Soft," Oghren choked out, and he lifted his free hand to rub his knuckles against one eye. "You damn sentimental fool, I'm gonna end up as soft as you are, you keep this up."

The Warden-Commander pretended not to see Oghren wiping his eyes. "Heh. I won't tell anyone."

"Better not!"

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"What's this I hear about you being tall enough to show a human girl a good time?" Felsi asked, with a knowing sort of grin.

Oghren scratched at the back of his neck. "Denerim is an interesting place for a bachelor."

"I see." Felsi curled one of her bodice ribbons around her finger, smirking as the motion drew Oghren's eye. "And for a married man?"

"A married man only worries about showing his wife a good time, or he doesn't deserve her."

"Seems to me, my husband worries an awful lot about deserving and not deserving."

"I..." Oghren looked away. "I've done you wrong before, Felsi."

Felsi put her hand under Oghren's chin, gently turning his face to hers. She met his eyes and smiled tenderly. "And now? Now you do right by me, Oghren Kondrat. I'm proud to be your wife."

Doubt entered his eyes, clouding over the adoring gaze he regarded her with. Not for the first time - or, she admitted sadly, likely to be the last - Felsi cursed the selfish Paragon who'd had her Oghren and treated him so cruelly. Paragon of smiths, Branka might be; Paragon of wives, definitely not! Branka had left him almost incapable of believing that he was worthy of love.

Felsi released her husband's chin and curled her hand into his shirt front, tugging just enough to draw him slightly off balance. She purred, "And if any of your human girlfriends come sniffing around, I'll just have to prove I've got the stronger claim to you, won't I?"

Oghren grinned, more comfortable with the bawdy suggestion than talk of feelings. His hands moved to grab her by the bottom so that he could pull her closer. "Why wait?"

"Mm... why indeed?" Felsi asked rhetorically, just before claiming his mouth for a kiss.

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The worst thing about the surface, Oghren has concluded, is the sodding WEATHER. At first, it was just the fact that surface even had the stuff. Water falling randomly from the sky, the sun too bright and hot, and strong winds that could dry a dwarf out or knock him down. But now, oh now Oghren knows that surface weather is some kind of curse that the Stone once shielded him against.

He can feel the chill picked up by his axe handle, even through the thick gloves he wears. He can feel the sting of snow being blown into his face, his eyes. He can feel sweat rolling down his back under the heavy furs worn under his armor. What he can't feel is his nose (although, as he'd said to Wynne once before, his beard keeps the rest of his face warm), and he's worried about his feet.

"Howe, give me some cover!" Oghren yells, "Velanna's in trouble!" And he runs toward the beleaguered Dalish mage without waiting, chopping down the sword-wielding hurlock trying to get a stab in.

The wind rises again in a howl, and Oghren hears Nathaniel cursing. The human's archery has been near-useless in these conditions, and now once again, when he's needed.

Oghren blocks the fast-moving blades of a genlock rogue, and at the first opening, SLAMS his helmed forehead against the genlock's hooded one. The sound it makes is almost comical, as it crumples to the snowy ground. The wet snow falling from the sky piles on the darkspawn's still form even as Oghren presses forward.

The worst thing about the surface is the weather, and the worst kind of weather is this Stone-forsaken blizzard!

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Felsi does not speak of her husband. People have learned not to ask.

Her child does not remember the man, and Felsi can't bring herself to change that. It hurts too much, recalling Oghren. He was the man who loved her, who hurt her with his own pain, who left her to protect her. She watches her darling child - her "Nugget", still answering to that nickname they don't know is from Oghren - playing with other surface dwarf children. And she knows they can do so because Oghren left, because Oghren became a Grey Warden and never came home.

It's not until Nugget comes to her, Oghren's last letter held in their hand, that Felsi feels bad about her silence. Her child's eyes - as green as Oghren's - are full of tears.

"Ma," Nugget says in a trembling voice, "why didn't you ever tell me about my da?"

"Oh, darling..." Felsi says sadly, "you shouldn't have gone through my personal papers."

Nugget waves the letter in agitation. "This is MINE! You kept it from me! You kept my da from me!"

"Your da let himself be dead for years," Felsi replies, "Letting you believe he was truly dead seemed kinder than seeing you wait for a father who isn't coming back."

"Ma, that makes no SODDING SENSE!"

"WHERE did you learn that language, child?" Felsi tries to scold, but she's laughing too hard through her tears. Nugget stares at her, confused. Felsi suddenly can't speak, crying openly. After an awkward moment, Nugget embraces her. Felsi clings to her child. "I don't want to lose you, too. If you find out what he did... if you want to be a hero like he was in the end..."

"You're not going to lose me," they try to assure her. "I just want to know about my da."

"You're asking a lot, darling."

"I got time. We'll make snacks."

Felsi gives a watery little laugh at that. "All right. I suppose you've got a right to know Oghren, too."

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Oghren doesn't notice when it starts. House Kondrat are warriors all, and affection is not easily communicated among them. Love is shown, not said. So Oghren is blissfully unaware, at first, of his family's gradually lowering opinion of him.

They listen to Branka. She is a Paragon, and it is only to be expected.

The first sign, perhaps, is that Oghren's younger cousins neglect their warrior drills for lessons given by Branka and other smiths. When one of his aunts drops the Kondrat name and says she's "of House Branka" now, some of the men grumble.

But the lure of being in a Paragon's House is strong. Some who were of House Kondrat may be too old to learn the smithy trade, but they take the name and display their childrens' work in Proving Ground matches proudly.

Oghren is too busy -- alternating between dodging thrown tools or hunting for glass trinkets to appease his wife -- to notice the gradual changes. (He's screamed at Branka too. They're a matched set.) And when he is not occupied by that, he is training alone or drinking alone. So it sneaks up on him.

The sneering disdain and jokes from the young pups who use Branka's name are easier to dismiss -- Oghren tells himself that those brats were never House Kondrat to begin with.

He experiments with his still rather than confront anyone, in the end. They're his family. They're warriors and fight enough against the darkspawn and other Houses. (He fears being mocked in earnest for voicing his opinion now, though he can barely admit it to himself.)

Turning to alcohol when he's unhappy and lonely and angry is easy. It also fuels Branka's animosity and the rejection from the rest of the House -- which is House Branka in full, now.

Cousin Hespith in particular seems to take much satisfaction from insulting him. Oghren belched in her face the last time. Sure, it got him exiled from Branka's bed for a week, but Oghren thinks it worth the punishment. That snickering bitch Hespith never was much of a scrapper, so he's not surprised she got Branka to fight her battles.

No one takes HIS side, though. They regard him with disgust, so Oghren keeps drinking.

Honestly, when it sinks in that House Branka's expedition to the Deep Roads -- preparation for which has consumed his wife and family for months -- has left him behind, all Oghren feels is relief.

Chapter Text

"Hold the fort for me, eh Oghren?" the Warden-Commander had said, just before setting off on their quest to cure the Calling. He remembers their smile as they spoke, remembers he had given in to the urge to salute them. They had regarded him seriously for a moment, then returned the gesture.

Letters that detailed their progress came infrequently. Their awful handwriting had not improved over the years either -- Oghren sets a scribe to copy them down clearly, word for word, and includes the legible versions in his monthly reports to Weisshaupt when he can.

Oghren keeps the originals, even though HE rarely reads them ever again, and always only for the personal notes. (He misses his friend, even more than he wants the Warden-Commander to relieve him of his duty.)

Oghren smiles to hear the Nugget's laughter down in the courtyard.

Felsi had come a few months after the Commander left, a letter clutched in one hand, and their child perched on her hip.

"I was told," she'd said, barely hiding a smile, "that my stubborn husband might need me and never admit it." The letter from the Warden-Commander that she handed over was much the same as the others -- except for an extra page that had said all in capitalized letters: DON'T SEND HER AWAY AGAIN, NUG-BRAIN. (He never handed that page to the scribe.)

Felsi is still in the dining hall, feeding their tiny second child, their son. Oghren hangs back a moment, just watching mother and baby. He doesn't deserve this happiness, he knows. But Felsi has chosen him again and again -- she won't leave Amaranthine, and he won't disobey his commander in asking her to go.

So he will simply have to do his best, for his family. They deserve that from him, no matter how unworthy of them he feels. (Felsi beams at him when he gives her a good morning kiss.)

It's been nearly six months since the last letter. Oghren isn't worried. His commander walked away from killing an Archdemon. They will return with the cure. Until then, Oghren holds the fort.

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"And you aren't walking around with a keg, so unless you're -- " Zevran stopped talking for a moment, then groaned, "Oh no..."

Oghren demanded, "What? Where has that perverted elven mind of yours gone?"

"That... would explain the smell..." Zevran said in a queasy tone, "Suddenly I'm not so interested in trying a sample..."

Sten scoffed. Alistair and the Warden laughed, as Leliana made a face and Morrigan sighed. Wynne shook her head.

"I've had some of the ale he carries around," the mage pointed out. "It's quite good."

Zevran gave Wynne a horrified look. "You DRANK it?"

"Not everyone is as delicate as you, elf," Oghren grumbled.

"Are you sure you didn't have to use your magic to recover?" Zevran asked Wynne. "I know you're talented at healing spells."

She huffed. "I'd accept that compliment if you hadn't insulted Oghren with it." The kind words surprised Oghren, and he stopped walking for a moment. Wynne smiled. "I don't know that you'd like it, Zevran. It had quite the kick."

The Warden laughed again, and teased, "Oh, she's calling you out!" Zevran scowled outrageously, though briefly, before his own laughter won out.

"It cannot be stronger than Maaras-Lok," Sten commented gruffly, from his position as the vanguard.

"You take that back!" Oghren yelled over his shoulder at Sten, "You ain't ever had any dwarven brew!"

"Are you challenging me to drink that weak piss?"

Oghren seemed to puff up with rage at Sten's insouciant question. Morrigan sighed again and stepped between the two. Both of her hands were wreathed in ice flurries.

"Cool your tempers, or I shall do it for you!"

"Stay out of this, witch-girl!" Oghren snapped.

"I will not!" Morrigan growled. "The pair of you will get drunk trying to prove the size of your genitals, and the rest of us will have to drag you along!"

Alistair piped up, "I don't feel like dragging anyone today."

"Nor I," Leliana said dryly.

Sten sidestepped Morrigan while her attention was on the other companions, and he held out his hand to Oghren. "Give me the flask."

"No!" Leliana and Morrigan yelled.

Oghren grinned and slapped it into Sten's grip as asked. Morrigan snapped an obscenity and tried to freeze them, but Zevran jostled her elbow and spoiled her aim.

The dwarf watched as Sten managed a whole mouthful of the brew. With a determined look, the qunari swallowed... and almost immediately made a strangled noise of distress.

Oghren caught the dropped flask as Sten staggered, taking a swig as the big qunari took a knee. "All right there, Sten?"

"My insides have caught fire," Sten croaked. "What is IN that?"

Oghren shot a conspiratorial glance at Wynne. She'd known from the first sniff that his brew was a sipping beverage, not for chugging. He said coolly, "Cloves."

Sten whimpered and tried to curl up. Wynne, trying in vain to hide her amusement, stepped up to heal him.

Oghren kept a straight face until both of the Grey Wardens started laughing, then he cracked up along with them.

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Sometimes, Oghren forgets that his children are surface dwarves. Despite what anyone says, Oghren was born of the Stone and his heart remains there still. He has lost caste and honor, but found purpose with the Grey Wardens - and in being a father to his children, even with their weird surfacer ways.

Nugget is a fearless little dwarf, climbing tall rocks and trees, fording deep streams, exploring their world with delighted curiosity. When Oghren manages to visit his family, he is added to the list of climbable things, and happily totes his eldest around on his shoulders. So it's not out of the ordinary when a laughing, happy Nugget comes running up to him one sunny morning and tugs on his sleeve.

Oghren stoops, so they can get on his knee to start with, but Nugget says, "Toss me, Da! Up in the air and catch me! Wanna fly!"

"Fly?" an astonished Oghren repeats. He still gets dizzy looking into the open sky sometimes, and now his own child... Oghren furrows his brow and asks, "What kind of dwarf wants to fly?"

Undeterred, or taking the question for a joke, Nugget strikes a fierce, hands-on-hips pose and declares, "Me! Bravest dwarf!"

Oghren doesn't understand this, but he loves his child. He laughs warmly and pulls Nugget into a hug. "You know something, Nugget? I think you just might be!"

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Oghren cries out as his arm is struck by the snarling genlock's mace, pain loosening his grip on his battle axe. He kicks at the genlock, who screams when Oghren's iron boot shatters its shin. Over the darkspawn's shoulder, Oghren catches sight of a shriek bearing down on Wynne. The old mage is busy with a spell to heal the group, and doesn't realize the danger she's in.

Oghren stomps on the genlock's chest, hoping to wind his opponent and discourage pursuit at the very least, then bellows a challenge at the shriek and charges. The twisted creature stops and whirls on Oghren with a threatening hiss. Oghren tries to chop at its hip, and though it attempts to dodge, it fails to do so entirely. Oghren laughs fiercely as the blow lands in a gash at the darkspawn's leg.

He feels his fatigue lift somewhat, and cheers up considerably, despite the continued battle. Wynne must have noticed how he saved her. She will surely thank him later.

***

Oghren waits, once the battle is done.

The Warden breathlessly thanks Morrigan for a well-timed ice spell on the alpha hurlock of the group, which gave the Warden an opening for the killing blow. Morrigan pretends not to care about the Warden's thanks, but really, she's fooling no one.

Leliana thanks Sten for diverting attention from her to him, and he grudgingly admits that her bard-song was useful in the battle.

Alistair ruffles the mabari's ears and praises him for being a good dog.

But Wynne says nothing. Oghren reasons that she must be tired from all the healing spells she managed, for everyone at once as well as specifically to the Warden a few times. So he keeps an eye on her as the party departs the field of battle to find a campsite for the evening.

She makes it without incident, keeping pace with Leliana in the middle of the group. Oghren helps set up the tents, and Alistair goes into the nearby trees to gather firewood. Still Wynne says nothing.

Finally, as supper is cooking on the fire (thanks to Morrigan, since no one desires a repeat of Alistair's lamb and pea stew), Oghren approaches the old mage. "You could show me a little appreciation, you know."

Wynne looks up from her sewing. "Appreciation?" she repeats. Her brow creases in confusion. "For what?"

Oghren exclaims, "I saved your ass a while back!" He gestures expressively, "When that thing was..."

Wynne stares at him blankly.

Oghren deflates. "You don't even remember."

Wynne frowns, "I'm sorry. I-"

"No, that's fine," Oghren grumbles, turning away. He won't let her see how it makes him feel, damn it. But he's feeling petulant enough to say, "Next time I'll just let it get you, that's all."

He won't, he knows. Too much of a warrior, too much honor left still, to leave an ally in the lurch. But maybe he wants to let her squirm a bit. Bah! Oghren hates these kind of thoughts. He stalks away from Wynne's tent and pulls out his hip flask. He'd rather not think at all right now.

Chapter Text

Oghren scowled as he thought about the past morning. Zevran's words kept repeating in his head.

'You are a brave little soldier, my friend.'

He knew well when he was being mocked. And it rankled, in a way that the disgust of Orzammar had not, to be belittled by the Warden's other companions. They were all misfits, come together to help stop the Blight, and in his eyes, none of them had the right to judge him. They were all lacking when it came to their proper roles, and given another chance by the Warden. But he saw the laughter in their eyes and held his tongue.

As usual, when the party slowed its pace for the evening, Sten grumbled about it. Oghren strove to keep pace with the qunari, even as the others flagged. 'Little soldier', was it? He'd show that flashy assassin a SOLDIER.

At one point, he felt Sten's eyes on him. Oghren kept his own gaze roaming the path and forest ahead, alert for any possible ambush. Sten made no comment.

****

"Morrigan, can you check the surrou--"

"I'll do it," Oghren announced, interrupting the Warden.

They stared at him. "Uh. Are you sure?"

"Positive," Oghren said. "Watch my kit, eh? Don't trust the rest of these jokers, but you're okay." At the Warden's silent nod, Oghren stripped off his heavy armor, leaving himself in his leathers, and shed all of his gear -- save a lightweight hand-axe and the flask he kept hanging from his belt.

Oghren took a nip from the flask, for courage, then studied the trees all around them. After a moment, he located a tree with what he considered to be the roughest bark. That tree would be easier to grip -- Oghren knew he didn't need anything to make the climb more difficult than the general unfamiliarity would all on its own.

The rest of the party at least waited until he was mostly out of earshot to mutter about his behavior. The higher he got, the harder they were to hear, anyway.

Climbing the tree wasn't quite like scaling up a good, solid rock wall, since he couldn't sense a thing about the tree under its surface. But the physical similarities were close enough that he hardly had to think about finding hand- or foot-holds. That part wasn't instinct, but long-ingrained training and experience. Not all of the tunnels and thaigs in the Deep Roads were close quarters, after all.

The tree swayed a bit as he neared the top, so Oghren stopped his ascent. Shading his eyes with one hand -- which blocked the sun AND made it harder to tell that the empty blue space was above him -- he gazed around for any signs of the darkspawn horde.

He carefully moved around the trunk to a branch on the opposite side, then took another long, searching look. Sill nothing. So this was a good campsite, for now.

Oghren made his way back to the ground, not quite as quickly as he'd ascended. "We're good," he reported, "no sign of darkspawn."

Everyone was still staring at him, giving him incredulous looks.

Oghren asked gruffly, "What? What is it?"

"We thought you were afraid of heights!" Zevran exclaimed. "Aren't all dwarves?"

"Pfft!" Oghren flapped a hand dismissively. "Heights don't bother me. Lack of a roof's the real problem." He smirked up at Zevran. "But a brave. Little. Soldier. Is able to put that aside, you know."

Leiliana giggled behind a hand when Zevran flushed over Oghren's pointed tone.

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"Oghren, stay behind and protect Morrigan," Oghren muttered, in a nasally, mocking tone that really sounded nothing like the Warden's voice. "I'm trusting you with the dog, Oghren. I don't think you can handle fighting an old witch, Oghren..."

Alistair was sulking in his tent. Zevran hadn't been chosen for the party either, but he was nowhere in camp at the moment. So Oghren didn't even have the option of being distracted by the Antivan's weird sense of humor. Even Bodahn and Sandal were away -- the merchant had backtracked to one of the main roads, looking for customers rather than waiting around in the well-hidden camp.

Oghren kicked at a rock on the ground. Nearby, the mabari war hound whined with concern at his ranting.

"Oh, hush," Oghren grumbled.

The dog barked crossly in response to his tone. Abashed, Oghren scratched at his chin. Then he came acloser to the dog, other hand held out in offer. The mabari huffed and stooped so that his head bumped up under Oghren's palm.

Oghren ruffled the dog's floppy ears, smiling despite himself. "Sorry. Just don't like being left behind."

"Woof!"

Oghren laughed. "Suppose you don't either -- bred for battle and all that. Me too, you know? I'm a warrior, not a bodyguard..."

He looked toward Morrigan's tent and its separate fire. The young witch was curled up near the fire, poring over an old book. She was scowling at the pages as though they'd done her a great wrong. And Oghren was pretty sure that she wasn't actually reading whatever was written there. She didn't care for being left behind. She was probably sulking over it, just as much as Oghren.

Oghren gave the mabari's ears one last ruffle, then walked closer to Morrigan. She obviously heard his approach, for she looked up when he was close. Her yellow eyes pinned him with a glare.

"Whatever you have to say," Morrigan said sharply, "I am not interested."

Ignoring her tone, Oghren said what he'd come here to say: "The Warden does impossible shit all the time. They'll keep you safe from that swamp witch mom of yours, you know."

Before she could reply, Oghrne turned away and walked back to the main fire. The mabari barked happily at him when he got close. Oghren took a seat, and pulled out tools to sharpen his axe. The mabari flopped at his feet with a sigh, the way it often did with the Warden.

"Good dog," Oghren said, smiling again as the words earned him a wag from that stub tail. "Maybe I'll get a saddle on you yet."

The mabari grumbled.

Chapter Text

Anders directed another annoyed glare at the dwarves in the party, and complained, "Can't you shut them up?"

Neither Sigrun nor Oghren acknowledged the mage, except perhaps to sing a bit louder as they got back to the chorus.

The Warden-Commander smiled, rather sheepishly, and shrugged. "Not really. They aren't hurting anyone."

"Speak for yourself," Nathaniel muttered, rubbing at one ear. "When Sigrun tries to hit the high notes..."

The pair of dwarves paused in their singing of a dwarva drinking song to howl with laughter -- probably at some bawdy lyric that none of the others could understand, given the language barrier. Justice tutted disapprovingly, as Anders and Nathaniel both intensified their glares.

"This is unwise," the contained spirit complained. "If we are attacked..."

Oghren swaggered up to Justice and offered him a cup of the ale. Justice glowered.

"Oh, come on, you dead son-of-a-bitch," Oghren laughed, "Live a LITTLE!"

Justice eventually took the cup, to stop Oghren from trying to push it on him. But he set it aside immediately, once Oghren made his way back to Sigrun's side.

"I know that Oghren can handle himself, regardless of sobriety," the Warden-Commander said cheerfully, still unmoved by the complaints.

"And... and you stretched out bean-poles can just TRY me!" Sigrun cried, then dissolved into laughter again.

"Hey now, you said I get first crack at tryin'... to get past your shield..." Oghren said, in a suggestive tone.

"Oh yeah," Sigrun said. She grinned. "All right, humans, get in line!"

Anders made a face. "Behind Oghren? I'll pass."

"Are you asking us to really fight you?" Nathaniel asked.

"Nah!" Sigrun replied. "It's only a little friendly sparring!"

"Socializing with you dwarves seems awfully dangerous," Velanna observed. Sigrun slid closer to Velanna, a sly smile on her tattooed face.

"Oh, Velanna," she purred, "You don't have to worry. I'll keep you safe from Oghren."

Velanna chuckled despite herself. "My hero!" she said warmly, and Sigrun dropped a kiss to her cheek.

"Well, if you want her for yourself you should have said," Oghren laughed, before taking another drink.

Sigrun retorted, "You can't watch!" Oghren pulled an exaggeratedly disappointed face, and Sigrun rolled her eyes. Velanna realized what they were alluding to and blushed.

"Don't break him, Velanna," the Warden-Commander warned, amused. "He's more useful in one piece."

"Aye," Oghren said, "I could show you if-- ow! Ow, hey! All right, all right. Live your lives bereft of the pleasures of Oghren."

Chapter Text

Zevran stood in the doorway of his room and stared. "What in the world are you doing in here?"

Oghren fidgeted a bit, then squared his shoulders and straightened up, looking into Zevran's face better. He wasn't here to do anything bad.

"Heard you talking to Alistair before. About tattoos."

Zevran frowned thoughtfully. "That was quite a while ago, my friend." Before the Landsmeet, before the revelation of Alistair's parentage, and before they'd fought the Archdemon.

"Yeah." Oghren took a breath. "You offered to give him a tattoo once. Would you do that for me?"

Zevran's expression cleared, and he gave Oghren a broad grin. "My dear Oghren. I believe I told you before, you have only to ask."

Oghren snorted, put at ease for once by the friendly teasing. He sniped back, "If I remember right, elf, that was about something entirely different."

Zevran stepped into the room, rolling his shoulders in a loose shrug. "Perhaps. I've always found the art of tattooing to be rather... intimate."

"Now you're just angling for a reaction," Oghren grumbled good-naturedly. His hands went for the buttons on the front of his shirt, but he paused. "I, uh... have some ideas. And a couple other tattoos you'll have to work around?"

"By all means," Zevran said, in a tone that bordered sultry, "because now you've got me curious."

Oghren made a face, but continued unbuttoning his shirt. "Bloody Antivan..." he muttered, which earned him another playful grin from Zevran. As Oghren shrugged off the shirt, exposing his chest and arms, though, Zevran's expression went serious.

"Huh." Zevran frowned slightly. Somehow, he'd managed to go months of shared travel without getting a good look at the inkwork Oghren sported.

Oghren figeted. "Ain't much to look at, I know..." he ventured.

"No, no," Zevran said, "That's not it. Those are 'a couple other tattoos'?" He reached out and touched Oghren's bicep, where colorful geometric designs in the dwarven art style interlocked, forming the beginning of a partial sleeve on Oghren's right arm. The sleeve design extended just past Oghren's elbow. "I'd call this more than 'a couple', my friend."

"Well, yeah..." Oghren flexed his right hand, head bowed to stare a tthe bare skin of his forearm. "S' not nearly as much as some warriors. Up there's my House sigil, and a design for each successful Deep Roads campaign. Since you can tattoo, I was hoping you'd add to it. For finding Branka. For being there when the Warden killed the Archdemon..."

"I'll do it, and gladly," Zevran replied, "but it won't look much like the rest of your work."

"Heh." Oghren grinned. "If I wanted something dwarven, I'd find someone Carta. But someone Carta wasn't there. That matters more."

Zevran paused in tracing one of the looping lines that twisted into a snarling, abstract face. His glance jumped to Oghren's face. "You WANT my work? Specifically?"

"Yes, you daft elf!" Oghren snapped. "Why wouldn't I?"

Zevran flashed one of his disarming smiles at Oghren, despite the fact that those rarely worked on his dwarven compatriot. But he really was gratified that Oghren sought his tattoo work on purpose. Appreciation of his less deadly talents was still a novelty to Zevran. "I am being foolish. Forgive me," Zevran said. "I will draw up some designs, and we'll work from what you like best."

"Thank you," Oghren said, with a small, relieved smile. This would go a long way toward making him feel more like a proper warrior again.

Zevran smiled back. "You may wish to hold off thanking me until you see what I can do."

"That you're trying is enough," Oghren replied. That was a sentiment that probably belonged more in the Warden's mouth than his, but Oghren had learned a lot from the Warden in their time together.