#warden x oghren

[dewdlepies]

I have some new party members in Dragon Age Origins! Shale and Oghren

Oghren immediately had something to say to Zevran about his and my Warden's relationship when he joined.

[loveacrossthedaszine]

11 DAYS LEFT FOR MOD APPLICATIONS!!! You don’t wanna miss this!!

Open positions:

- art mod

- writing mod

- layout/formatting (assistant) mod (dependent on experience)

🐉 MOD APPLICATIONS NOW OPEN 🐉

With such an AMAZING turn out in the interest check, we've decided to open Mod Applications a bit early and really get going on the creation of this zine!

Applications will run from May 15th - May 27th! All decision emails will be sent by May 29th!

Link to the application here: https://forms.gle/w1PU3L2BrNZrGsTA7

RBS 💚 @fanzinewatch @zinephile @zine-scene @zineapps

[fruk-choosing-a-username]

this is how awakening was for my warden most of the time

oghren: careful, this one might go all zevran on you

vermilion: *starts crying*

[perkeleen-lavellan]

Here's a little holiday spirit for everyone. You can now go grab the Love Across Thedas zine on itch.io for free, and find this artwork and much, much more inside, including plenty of fanfiction and digital merch.

@loveacrossthedaszine Extra thanks and much love to everyone who worked on the zine, but especially the mods.

(For anyone interested in what I was thinking when I was drawing this tune in below)

I wanted to do nanders because I pretty exclusively just do art about my player characters and their beaus otherwise. But nanders is one of those ships that I have been carrying my torch for since day one, or day 6 months in more like, with the pace I do my playthroughs in. Regardless, they were my favourite part about Awakening, and the greatest tragedy in Dragon Age is that they still haven't reunited for longer than 5 minutes in some dank darkspawn tunnel! So I set out to fix that.

I wanted to create a scene where the Amaranthine Wardens, my Mahariel and Zevran included, would go meet Anders in the middle after what happened to the Kirkwall Chantry, to keep him safe, and the team could finally get that more permanent reunion.

Due to my own headcanons the Amaranthine crew is also having a bit of an exodus, since they're in the middle of planning to go rogue from the rest of the Wardens. Oops :). All in all they're a bunch of outcasts right now, but they have each other.

And of course Nathaniel brought Pounce with them too.

[contrivedcoincidences6]

I can’t properly explain my disappointment when I started Awakening and my Warden Alistair was no where to be seen with no explanation. Where is my wife? Why did he leave me? I mean why even go through with the dark ritual if I can’t at least get a letter like with Leliana or Zev? 😭

[eliphasgraham]

✨ Romance ✨

[awesomechipz]

Oghren:

[a-drama-addict]

also “dwarf wlw suspended” is a lie we all know i will still do it

[my-dumb-obsessions]

💕 Happy Anniversary, Carie & Nate! 💕

A year ago today, I completed a short fic based on a random prompt that had been sitting in my inbox for 3 months. That was Silverite Moon, and it was the day I decided that Cariane Amell and Nathaniel Howe had more story that I needed to tell.

Since then, I went backward and forward (and backward again) in their story with 3 more fics, and there's still more story to come!

But I'm so proud of this work I spent almost a year on, and this romance that still owns my whole soul. So I wanted to celebrate and share it again:

Nathaniel Howe returns home to the wreckage of the past and builds a new future with an unlikely partner. Warden-Commander Cariane Amell is thrown into a role she never expected and never prepared for and finds family and love along the way.

[anderstrevelyan]

Everyone say hi to Justice—there's a new chapter today and it's his first big appearance!

Ch. 14: The Fade Made Flesh

Read it on AO3 or Read from the beginning

“Uh,” Oghren says, his tone a touch haunted, and that brings Garrett back to the moment. To the solid earth under his boots, the weight of his knife as he tucks it back into his belt, the way the rain’s softened to a velvety haze. To Kristoff standing before them. Or, well, not Kristoff. “You’re really the…the spirit?”

“Pretty sure he’s not an Orlesian back from the dead,” Anders says dryly. His voice has an edge of fear, too, one Garrett can barely discern, but he supposes that’s fair, despite their alliance so far. Things from the Fade made flesh aren’t often good. They both grew up hearing endless refrains of just that, after all, and Garrett’s seen it, far too often, the horror of what can happen when something spectral tries to twist a mortal body into its own.

Yet the spirit of justice doesn’t respond, just stares at his new fingers as he slowly uncurls them, at an uneven pace that makes Garrett wonder if there’s a delay between intention and motion. Kristoff’s gaunt face, already twisted to a grimace in death, is now something a little more: confused, alarmed. Desperate.

“I did not wish for this,” he says finally.

[ramblinganthropologist]

13

13 - too loud

Camp at night was hell - too bright, too loud with everyone going around, tending to their things and setting up for the night. Vonnar Brosca would never get used to it, try as he might - he was just too used to the darkness of Orzammar. At the very least, he could find comfort in the side of an Antivan elf that smelled of leather and spices - Zevran did wonders to block out an unfriendly, unfamiliar world.

It was still loud... but he was a great buffer for the noise. And he smelled nice - that was a bonus.

[heylavellan]

Happy Friday!How about "tripping, but being caught in the arms of the other" from your RomCom tropes for Emmrich x Rook?

it is time for barry to reveal himself. to be absolutely shit at comprehending his feelings. veilguard ahead! @dadrunkwriting

tell me there's a chance!

rating: m

words: 621

additional notes: referenced sex acts (not in detail), rook being terribly bad at feelings. barry uses he/him!

qReally, Barry should have been paying more attention. Everyone knows that in a foreign place, paying attention to your surroundings is paramount. A dwarven warrior should know that. A former Proving champion should know that. And, especially, a Grey Warden should know that.

Still, the Grand Necropolis is a place of wonder. The skeletons are very strange, after all they were once inside people and used to have tendons and blood vessels surrounding them. Their bones are very clean and a fine grey colour, no black or yellow discolouration. Many of them are digging tunnels, clearing away debris, and generally tending to the maintenance of the necropolis. A bit like the few working golems in Orzammar. But far more macabre. Oghren would shit his pants.

Bellara leads him through a few winding passageways, and spies a well-dressed skeleton. Well, compared to the other working skeletons at least. A hardy pair of goggles, a well-worn leather backpack and a waterskin tucked in his ribcage. The care and attention to that skeleton is actually kind of adorable. Like a freaky little cat.

He misses whatever Bellara says, and immediately trips over something. Barry didn't quite have time to see what caused him to trip. Instead, he careens into a broad chest, hidden behind fine fabrics. A green velvet waistcoat adorns a pin-tucked shirt with two rows of pearly buttons now pressing into the dwarf's cheek. A thick leather coat presses in on either side of his face as lithe arms wrap around his body.

Truly, a phenomenal entrance. "Are you alright?" asks the smoothest Nevarran voice He's ever heard. Right. Not a problem. Just a nice voice.

He leans back and finally gets a decent eyeful of the man who caught him and bronto shit. In that moment, Barry Thorne learns a few new things about him. First, he is a sucker for a refined sounding voice. His previous two wives spoke like filthy dusters. At the time, that was what he wanted. A strong woman who knew how to make even a proud warrior like him feel small. This man, whoever he is, presents him with a new experience. He hopes he gets to hear more of that voice.

Second, he learns he likes men. He always knew it was a possibility that his preferences might change. His second wife didn't need any gadgets to peg him, she had her own prick to use on him. Never bothered him much. After joining the Legion and then the Grey Wardens? Not much attraction at all. But looking at this fine specimen reminds him of more youthful days, when he brought home plenty of women after winning a Proving match. The longing he felt for this spindly man is as intense a passion as he had twenty years prior.

The third is that he doesn't know how to react to this. Hello? After so many years of accepting that he is dead to Orzammar and quite literally dying to the Blight in his veins, Thorne figured there would never be time for anything more. Or finding someone who would willingly help him tend to his needs at 53. He knows he's gone through the wringer. He doesn't keep up with his grooming as he should. Paragons know he hasn't-

"Rook?" asks Bellara interrupting his thoughts.

"Nothing stops this old dwarf," Barry responds with a half smile to the girl.

The fourth thing he realises is that the man he tripped into is looking at him with concern. Rook properly introduces himself, and shakes the necromancer's hand.

"Professor Emmrich Volkarin, of the Mourn Watch," the mage chirps.

The fifth thing hits Barry harder than he can swing his hammer: there might actually be a chance.

[pisscrossiant]

PART THREE OF MY DRAGON AGE: ORIGINS HEADCANONS BECAUSE IT'S MY CURRENT HYPERFIXATION

The last part was super long I'm sorry for that 😭 I'll try to keep this one a bit shorter

Tw// NSFW themes, mention of s*icide (warning before hand)

Alistair has accidentally called Wynne mom on multiple different occasions, he gets embarrassed when it happens but Wynne doesn't mind at all.

To the younger party members Wynne is like a mother figure, especially since most of their mom's either died or are just shitty.

Morrigan doesn't want to admit it but she wishes Wynne had raised her rather than Flemeth. She loves her Mother but she knows her mother doesn't love her, even though she doesn't get along well with Wynne a part of her wishes Wynne had been in place of Flemeth.

Leliana can sew pretty well, she'll sew blankets for the party members with fabric they choose. She'll patch their shirts up too but Wynne does that a lot more then she does.

Morrigan's favorite party member (besides the Warden) is Leliana, Leliana and her get along very well.

Oghren has tried to fight Zevran multiple times, ESPECIALLY if Zev is in a relationship with the warden. He'll be like "You're dating my favorite person?? Meet me outside." And he'll forget that they're together then he sees them making out in camp then tries to fight him again.

Oghren likes making fun of Alistair for being a virgin.

Leliana and Morrigan have gotten drunk and explored each other's bodies before

Tw// s*icide mentioned

Leliana calls Morrigan hot non chalantly

Alistair has attempted before. (I hope you get that reference but honestly I feel like he has)

Okay so to elaborate, Alistair, after Ostagar had felt as if he abandoned his father figure, and didn't deserve to live if Duncan died. The Warden found him as he was about to and stopped him, he's been greatful to them ever since.

//s*icide mention OVER

Morrigan constantly asks Mahariel what being Dalish was like, she is deeply interested in elven lore, everything she knows about ancient elves, and the Dalish she learned from Mahariel.

Leliana watches people sleep

Morrigan and Alistair helped Mahariel bury Tamlen after the incident at camp. (Still not over him I was so attached to him 🥲)

If Ruck is kept alive, when the Warden goes into the deep roads they go to visit him and they'll give him jewels and presents.

Mentioning Ruck, after they tell Filda he's dead, and she gives the Warden his father's shield, they give him the shield when they visit him next.

Alistair used to cook all the time but he gave the party food poisoning and after that he's not allowed to make the food.

Wynne, Leliana, Zevran and sometimes Morrigan make the food now.

Alistair gets very protective of the warden, even without romancing him, he's very protective of them in almost a brotherly way.

Morrigan likes to turn into a spider to scare Alistair

Zevran is a very light sleeper, up until he trusts the party enough that he sleeps like he's dead because he knows they'll protect him if shit hits the fan.

Morrigan's part of camp is the designated s-x area, considering how far it is from everyone else (also in the cutscenes that's where y'all are fucking) she just goes and sits by the fire with everyone else till they're done, they clean up afterwards ofc and they use their own bed rolls.

Oghren gets in fights with people that call the (elven) Warden a 'knife ear', every time someone says that to them he pulls up to their house.

Sten likes to learn about Dalish/Dwarven culture, he asks the warden questions about it 24/7, he's deeply fascinated with them.

Leliana and Morrigan have the biggest Sapphic crushes on each other,

Zevran and Leliana talk about women and men the find attractive together, especially if they turn onto the topic of the Warden, they're like "You find to Warden hot? ME TOO!"

That's all I have for this part I'm honestly running out of headcanons especially because the last part was SO LONG😭

Might be a part four but if there is it'll probably take a while ✋🏻

[broodwolf221]

solas x another unwritten ship for him - caressing the other’s hand

hehehehehehehehe okay. everyone else needs context for this. so, there's a joke in my friend group about how i ship solas with EVERYONE. and, well. one friend suggested someone as a joke. except i am me and i accepted the challenge. thus, i present to yall the most unhinged fucking ship: solas/oghren. yeah, them. pre-relationship and a bit of awkward desire and solas having a Thing for hairy men! (that said, i can actually sorta see it - reading through oghren's dialogue has been eye-opening fr. but it would take a big fucking fic to get them together in a serious way lmao) @dadrunkwriting 821 words cws: none

The Inquisition had made significant connections, including a promising one with Orzammar. Yet none had expected the dwarf who showed up at Skyhold, particularly one wearing the armor of a Grey Warden. Blackwall did not recognize him, but that did not mean much, for as he reminded everyone who asked, he had been out recruiting alone and had not been to Weisshaupt personally. The new Warden seemed disinterested in their current Warden… and in all of them. 

In fact, about the only thing he seemed interested in was the tavern. One day, Solas had gone to speak with him, but several clumsy insults later and he had determined it was a useless endeavor. Which is why this came as a surprise. 

“Have you need of me, Warden?”

“Nah. Just wanted to, uh…”

“What?”

“Shouldn’t have said what I said.” He shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “But I’m not gonna apologize!” Solas couldn’t help but snort, the man’s eyes widening a little before he grinned. “Well. Okay then. We good?”

“Why not?” He replied, closing his book. “I may loathe the Wardens and have little reason to be impressed by your carriage, but yes, we’re good.” The dwarf blinked, then suddenly his grin widened.

“Hey! Nice! You got a bit of bite to you, huh? Yeah, that’s good. Okay then.” He nodded firmly and then waved, leaving Solas alone in the rotunda.

And a little curious.

-

Several weeks had passed, and the Warden had made himself more at home. He still spent plenty of time in the tavern, but he had ventured outside of it as well. He spoke with Solas sometimes, the two of them trading barbs, but eventually he’d had enough. Oghren came into the rotunda and Solas shut his book pointedly. “Come, dwarf,” he said simply, rising and walking away. Oghren paused before following him, and didn’t balk at all until Solas stepped into the small room—with a prepared, steaming bath.

“Hey now, no—”

“Yes,” Solas insisted, gesturing at the tub. “You represent the Inquisition now. You will look the part. And if you refuse, I will summon Bull, and he will pick you up and put you in—”

“Sod it! Fine! Fine!” He started unbuckling his armor, grumbling under his breath about ‘sodding elves’ the whole way. Solas snorted, glancing away as the final layers came off without any attempt at propriety. But at last Oghren stepped into the bath, cursing up a storm at the hot water.

“Good,” Solas said as he was finally seated, shoving a bar of soap at his chest. “You scrub, and I will tend to… this,” he tugged on a bit of Oghren’s beard, amused when the man’s eyes went wide.

“Hey, no. A dwarf keeps his beard. You don’t get to touch it—” Solas held up a wide-toothed comb, wiggling it in front of Oghren’s face until he just scowled. “You are a right pain in the ass, you know that, elf?”

“So I’ve been told,” he mumbled under his breath, Oghren snorting before he started lathering up with the soap. Solas knelt outside the tub and began working on unbraiding his beard. “If you get food in this when I’m done,” he began quietly, “I will burn it all off.” Oghren grunted and glared at him, but did not protest.

Solas was still working by the time the dwarf was done soaping up—having taken a break during a few particular moments of cleaning—and eventually the other man was just relaxing in the tub, letting Solas work through his thick beard. It was fascinating: the length, the coarse texture, the way that brushing it revealed the threads of white through the stark red. 

He actually enjoyed spending time with the dwarf. Solas appreciated his blunt manner, always knowing that what was said was what was meant, but through their conversations he had also uncovered glimmers of surprising depth. Bold analyses presented as jokes, made light of. Details of his personal history, while few and far between, had shown a life of utter loyalty to Orzammar, followed by a deep disruption that he spoke little of. He was intriguing.

Solas enjoyed being intrigued.

He did not realize for some time that Oghren’s eyes had opened, that he was staring at him. Eventually he met those eyes and did not break the gaze. Oghren looked puzzled, a wet hand rising to just skate across the back of Solas’, making him shiver.

“I think it’s been brushed enough, elf,” he muttered under his breath, finally looking away. Solas startled at the reminder of his task, nodding and stepping aside, looking away as Oghren dried himself and got dressed again.They spoke little and returned to their business. And if that night Solas considered the rough weave of that beard and how it would feel under his spread hand, pressed against the other man’s equally thick chest hair, all of it intriguing… Well. That was his concern.

[vonuberwald]

Hello! A DADWC prompt for you: "…where it hurts." for Zevran/M!warden, or any another ship you feel up for!

Always up for Zev ships x Thanks!

-----

Theron hissed as he peeled away the remains of the blood-soaked sleeve under his bracer, the armour itself in pieces by his feet. A glancing shot from a tentacle had scored right through the leather and rent a nasty gash in his forearm that still bled sluggishly. Fuck the Deep Roads there and back again, he never wanted to see so much as the shadow of a brood mother ever again. Once was too much already.

The other members of the party who had remained in camp were helping Wynne with doling out new bandages, fresh potions and poultices. He looked up just as Zevran wandered over, a sight for sore eyes as it was, but even more welcome as Theron spied a particularly potent draught in his hand. He smiled at the other elf as the former assassin sat next to him on the ground near the fire, eyes on the wound. He made a small noise in sympathy and Theron shrugged with his other shoulder, a wry smile on his face.

'This one's going to leave a scar,' he said lightly. 'Aren't you glad you didn't come with us now?' He asked, only half-joking. Zevran looked up at him. He was smiling with Theron, but his eyes were serious.

'I heard you fought the... source of these spawn,' he said in his lilting accent. 'Oghren said... tentacles?' Theron made a face.

'Yes, too many, with fangs on them. Disgusting creatures. I think I got off lightly though,' he added as he reached for the potion Zevran had placed between them. 'Oghren caught a nasty blow across his shoulder.'

Zevran nodded. 'Morrigan is helping patch him up now. I would be shocked, amor, that you did not hear the cursing, but he did not manage to get more than a few words out before they just decided to send him to sleep instead to avoid the hassle.' Theron snorted a laugh. Deciding to cut out the middle man, he slowly poured the vermillion liquid over the tear in his flesh, wincing as he watched the muscle and skin knit itself together in front of him. As many times as he did it, he never got used to that sight. Zevran picked up his hand as the last of the wound repaired itself and brought Theron's fingers to his lips, their eyes connecting, before he kissed him again, this time on the pink line that had formed on Theron's forearm. He let out a heavy sigh.

'I confess, I know you have been wounded worse than this, but the Deep Roads... they give me a different sort of worry,' Zevran confided, his eyes on Theron again, his voice low. 'I shall be glad when we are above ground again, to be able to see the clouds and the stars again. And, dare to dream, the end of this misery soon thereafter.'

It was a thin hope, all there knew it, but Theron was more than willing to dare with him. He was learning, all too well, how precious that feeling was these days.

@dadrunkwriting

[stop-breaking-my-heart-dragonage]

[half agony, half hope] ch4: in the quiet desert, reminders are sought

ch1 | ch2 | ch3 | ch4 Read on AO3

Pairings: Warden!Carver/Merrill; some side M!Hawke/Anders and F!Tabris/Alistair Rating: M Chapter Summary: Having acquired confidential records from the archives of Weisshaupt Fortress, Warden-Commander Rosalie and her companions have a lead in the right direction. Unfortunately, Warden Carver won't be able to accompany them as he and his beloved companion have a long trip to Kirkwall to make, and a lot of feelings to sort out. But first: dwarven ale.

Note: I wanted to have this chapter out sooner but silly me got sick and needed some recovery time. I'm feeling better now, and was able to finally have some fun with Carver and the Grey Wardens.

I also want to note that this story takes place in my King Cailan Lives AU; it's not super relevant or important right now, but has a greater purpose in later chapters. Just throwing that out there since he's mentioned a few times. I promise it'll make sense, you just gotta stick with me! Thank you for reading!

-x-

In the southern Anderfels, there’s a desert made of dusty windstorms and prickly edges; a jagged butte rightfully called the Broken Tooth. Weeds and thick vines, some as dark as coffee grounds, others as light as tea leaves, grew all around Weisshaupt Fortress, the desert’s centerpiece. As impressive and intimidating as the Grey Wardens who occupied it.

Within the walls of stone, all decorated with elaborate tapestries that honored the order, whispers breathed new life into the stale air with piqued interest and anticipation. Not all were impressed, though; among them were a few dubious glances and cynical grumblings.

It was the second visit to the fortress made by the Hero of Fereldan; the only Grey Warden to ever kill an Archdemon, to accept the soul of an Old God within, and to survive.

An elven woman from the alienage of Denerim, conscripted upon facing execution for the murder of an Arl’s son, Warden-Commander Rosalie Tabris was a topic of speculation within the order. Most believed the story she spun for them—a witch saved her and Warden Alistair at Ostagar, and another witch’s magic ritual saved them against the archdemon.

Other’s believed it a fabrication, and spat scrutiny at the way she commanded the wardens under her at Vigil’s Keep.

But this time, Rosalie did not walk through the gates alone.

On her left was a dwarf with hair the color of fresh blood and the smell of an entire brewery on his breath; Warden Oghren, another hero of the fifth blight. On her right walked another dwarf with a casteless tattoo on her cheek, dawning armor pieced together of both Grey Warden and Legion of the Dead outfits; Warden Sigrun, recruited shortly after the Grey Wardens settled in at Vigil’s Keep.

And then there was the man who followed closely behind them with the distinctive chin and prominent dimples in his smile—Warden Carver Hawke, who towered over his companions, an impressive warrior with the silverite greatsword on his back.

And interestingly, if not amusingly, a rather large nug followed at his heels, of all things. The creature was larger than the average nug; fleshy pink with a grey patch around the right eye and a stripe down the back, creepy looking feet, and a ringlet for a tail; and had the temperament of a protective mabari.

Carver’s face was the one most at Weisshaupt recognized. Stroud brought him there as a warden still recovering from his Joining, but he had little time to form any long-lasting bonds.

Though he hadn’t intended nor expected it, Carver brought the Hero of Fereldan to Weisshaupt the first time. Rosalie showed up unannounced and demanded to see him, refusing to divulge her reasoning or say how she knew he was there at all. While questions were pressed, no one could deny her.

After speaking for only an afternoon, he agreed to go back to Fereldan with her.

Now Warden Carver served at Vigil’s Keep with great loyalty to the Hero of Fereldan and her cause, one that wasn’t so different from the order’s, but strayed enough that it had to be kept secret.

While that might’ve been a difficult task given that cause was the reason for their visit, the Grey Wardens were always good with their secrets. The wardens spent most of their visit in Weisshaupt’s expansive library, discretely inquiring after information and whispering to the shadows.

They found the information they sought, and departed in the dead of night with barely a goodbye.

-x-

Among all the coarse sand hills, insignificant boulders in every shade of brown, and the yellowing grass somehow thriving in the dry conditions, a makeshift camp was settled by the travelling Grey Wardens.

Three tents pitched around a lively fire, bags acting as extra weights to keep gusts of wind from blowing them away. The scent of dinner, a vegetable stew they scrapped together, still lingered with the smoke.  A distant howling, perhaps a wolf excited by the bright moon in the inky sky.

It would’ve been peaceful if not for Oghren’s abhorrent snoring. He didn’t even make it into his tent, but no one paid him much attention. Sigrun went to do a perimeter check, and to meet back up with Zevran, who the group hadn’t seen since he passed off stolen documents to them from the shadows.

That left Carver, his commander, and The Destroyer of Darkspawn on watch by the fire, but the most they fended off were the irritating bugs buzzing around.

Sat cross-legged on a heavy blanket a relaxed distance from the fire, Rosalie sifted through a stack of papers while Carver rested on his own blanket beside her. The Destroyer of Darkspawn—or DeeDee, if you prefer—lay at his side with her head in his lap, the heavyset nug peacefully snuffling in her sleep.

A restless night, like many, but this time it wasn’t due to the burdens of being a Grey Warden; nightmares of dripping black ichor, the screeching and gurgling of darkspawn, the whispers of broodmothers tingling behind his ear like a fingertip, tracing over the helix and down the back of his neck. It wasn’t even the buzz of new information they learned during their research that brought an anxious fluttering to his guts.

No, tonight his thoughts raced with conflicted cocktail of anticipation, enthusiasm, and dread over Kirkwall and everything that awaited him there. 

Admittedly, he thought he’d outgrown tantrums by now, but when Rosalie told him of Edgar’s letter and that she granted the request to give Carver leave, he was this close to throwing one.

With a hard tug, his hand was free of the gauntlet to rub at his face. Then off came the other, tossed over on packed bags, all stuffed with everything he and DeeDee would need for the journey and stay in the damned City of Chains.

The nug acknowledged the disturbance with a huff, long ears perking up, but relaxed when Carver soothed his hand down her pudgy back. Was it just him, or had she grown even bigger since they left Fereldan? She seemed heavier on his leg than before.

She’s definitely grown since he found her in Orzammar not that long ago. The Grey Wardens were regularly welcomed by King Bhelen for dinners and provings in their honor, and the last time Carver joined Rosalie, Alistair, and King Cailan, a “delicacy” of surface nug was on the menu.

Supposedly, DeeDee was found in the Arbor Wilds by dwarven butchers who sold exotic meats to Orzammar’s nobility, but Carver had no idea how she could feed anyone, not even a dwarf. Within the iron cage, she was a pathetic little thing like most other nugs. Noises that may have been the nug equivalent of growls emitted from her tiny body whenever anyone approached her cage. Maybe it was just chance he and Alistair happened by at the right moment, but whatever it was, he couldn’t stomach the thought of eating something so… helpless.

“Hey, distract the butchers for me. Keep their eyes off me.”

“Sure… wait, why?”

Not only did Carver gain a companion in DeeDee, who seemed to understand what fate he’d saved her from and followed him after he tried to set her free, but he also learned that Alistair made for a terrible dancer. It got the job done, though. 

DeeDee stretched out her legs and yawned, twisting to peer up at him with those beady eyes. Carver couldn’t help but grin down at her. The Destroyer of Darkspawn, as he initially named her, wasn’t the sort of companion he would’ve thought for himself, but he absolutely adored her.

Hopefully she got along with Fleabag. DeeDee and the Commander’s mabari, Griffon, often played and chased each other around the yards, but his beloved nug wasn’t exactly the friendliest creature when it came to first impressions. He didn’t want to hear Edgar complain about DeeDee beating up his dog.

Carver’s smile faltered.

Maker, he hadn’t even told his brother about DeeDee yet; hopefully his brother didn’t object Carver’s companion.

They wrote as often as they could, but Carver was far less elaborate on the fine details of his life; “Dear Edgar, how are you? Fereldan’s still Fereldan. Killed some darkspawn the other day. King Cailan visited Vigil’s Keep for dinner. Going to Orlais next week. Alistair says hello. Give my love to Mother. Your brother, Carver.”

It’s mostly because he couldn’t share certain things about the Grey Wardens, but also the vulnerability that came with sharing his life now became distressing. He knew his brother too well. Every letter Carver sent was probably waved around and shared with anyone who would listen. Not out of malicious intent, but because that’s just how Edgar was.

He always asked if Carver could come home to visit in every reply without fail, too. That part wasn’t anything new, except this time his brother changed his strategy, no doubt succeeding thanks to the sewer dweller he was smitten with, the bastard.

And given Rosalie and Alistair raised their daughter, Aria, in secret at Vigil’s Keep and often visited family in Denerim, allowed Oghren to take leaves to visit his son and ex-wife, as well as Nathaniel to see his sister… it’s unsurprising that they granted the request.

It’s not that he didn’t want to see his brother or return to Kirkwall, but Carver had a calling now. A duty to fulfil that his brother couldn’t possibly understand; to help save the world from facing the twisted corruption brought on by the taint… to make sure no one he loved ever had to face the underground horrors of broodmothers and their children, to succumb to destructive madness.

Even though the taint flowed in his blood, there was a freedom that he hadn’t felt before. Once Carver was a child with a collection of maps and flags. Now he’s a man who travels to those places he once dreamed of seeing with a purpose.

The Grey Wardens didn’t merely tolerate him. They all experienced the Joining, and witnessed the deaths of those who didn’t survive taking the taint into their bodies. All had made their own sacrifices, suffered nightmares and grief. Some bonds were stronger than others, but they all shared the same home now and there was comfort in that. Even if—even when they found the cure they sought, there was little fear in his mind that they would all part ways forgotten.

He had a Commander who recognized his worth and trusted his judgement out on the field. He had DeeDee who would follow him everywhere and looked at him with the adoration he once thought only a mabari could have. He and Alistair went for early morning runs and had afternoon tea with Aria and all her toys. Drinking contests with Oghren. Debates and—mostly—good-natured quarrels with Velanna about mundane things. Prank wars with Sigrun that always ended with Nathaniel as the loser despite not even participating. The newest warden, Ivun, a one-eyed elven fellow Rosalie conscripted to prevent him from hanging for theft, shared Carver’s interest in Fereldan history and lore.

 He trusted them all with his life down in the Deep Roads, when facing the soulless horrors of darkspawn, just as he cherished their time working together at Vigil’s Keep and Amaranthine.

He's more now than he ever was before the Deep Roads Expedition. Being a Grey Warden finally brought him out into the light away from his big brother’s shadow, and part of him wanted everyone who ever doubted him to see that. Five years ago, Carver was just Edgar Hawke’s little brother. A tagalong only put up with because everyone liked his brother, and he could swing a sword well enough. Yes, he was an ass back then. It did little to improve his popularity, he could admit that.

But he’s older now. He’s a respected warrior of the Grey Wardens, serving under the Hero of Fereldan. Everyone at Vigil’s Keep, and most citizens of Amaranthine, knew his name. He had more than enough coin flowing to never worry about living comfortably. Carver drew the eyes of the lovely noblewomen, unmarried or otherwise, who casually inquired after details; “Tell me, has anyone caught the fancy of Warden Hawke?”

And he wished… he wished Mother could see him. Bethany and Father, too. See that he did become someone uneclipsed and worthy, someone they could be proud of.

Carver would love nothing more than to boast all of that to Edgar. And to Aveline. And to all of his brother’s friends who believed he wouldn’t amount to anything, who didn’t even like having him—

“If you had a pet griffon, what would you name it?”

“A griffon?”

“I would name mine Feathers. Griffons don’t eat people, do they? What if it got out and ate the neighbors?”

“Eh, if it did, the neighbors probably deserved it. Actually… that’s what I’d name mine: Neighbor Eater.”

“Really?”

“That way no one can complain if he eats anyone. I’ll just tell them the name’s a warning; if you get eaten, it’s your own fault.”

“That… is the silliest name!”

“Is not!”

…No, that wasn’t true. There was…

Shit. Shit.

“I should go with you.”

The Commander only paid Carver half a glance. Another obnoxious snore rang from Oghren, followed by slurred grumbling.

“Kirkwall can wait a little longer,” he said, composing himself. DeeDee peered up at him, listening as well. “We finally have a good lead. If it’s true, and Fiona’s in Montsimmard, I should be there when you talk to her.”

A slow nod. Rosalie read the documents like if she glared hard enough, the pages would forfeit some secret information hidden from the eye. And who knows, maybe they would. He’d certainly spill his guts if she ever looked at him like that.

They’ve already discussed the information Zevran snatched from Weisshaupt’s confidential archives, courtesy of his inability to be sensed by other Grey Wardens and his deft thievery skills. They wouldn’t have resorted to stealing the documents if the Grey Wardens were more forthcoming, but somehow the Commander knew they wouldn’t let her waltz out of Weisshaupt with the only case reporting of a Grey Warden being miraculously cured of the taint—hence the forethought to sneak in their thieving confidant.

They wanted crucial information that could potentially bring the cure of the taint to all Grey Wardens, saving them from the fate of the Calling? Perish the thought!

Yet even for as thorough as they were, something in the reports didn’t add up. Carver wanted to go to Kirkwall, but he wanted to know how ex-warden Fiona cured herself of the taint from the woman herself even more.

“If you don’t go,” Rosalie finally spoke with a perked brow, but still didn’t pay him any glance, “then can I expect another letter from your brother? Or should we have a room made up for him when he inevitably storms the keep?”

Carver chuckled, shaking his head. “Believe it or not, there are more important things than my brother’s bullshit. He can wait.”

That got a snicker out of the elven woman. “Have you ever told him that?”

“More times than I care to count,” said Carver flatly, then sighed. “Look, if you’re going to the Circle, you’re going to need me. The templars may have no authority over you, but that doesn’t mean they won’t try something.”

“I’m aware.” Rosalie finally looked to him with an amused, knowing smile. “Many templars tried to take Anders away after I conscripted him, and I hear Greagoir threw a fit when the rumors about Justice reached Kinloch. Then one of their seekers showed up to have a chat with me. Lovely one, that.” She rolled her eyes, straightening out the stack of papers to tuck them in her bag. “And they think I don’t know about their attempts to send undercover templars to snoop around the keep. I’ve only met a few in the order who aren’t complete pricks. Alistair says it’s part of their oath.”

There’s a sentiment Carver shared. His whole life centered around not drawing attention from the Chantry and its templars. He could still only name enough decent ones on a single hand. Alistair once told him that if Fereldan wasn’t left in a such a delicate state after the Blight, King Cailan would’ve sought an effective way to “kindly shoo them out.”

“That’s why I should be there.”

“Your concern is sweet, Carver, but you needn’t worry about us. Besides, we’re not going to Orlais so soon. Unfortunately, there’s still much to do here.”

“I have to go through Orlais anyway,” Carver pressed. “I see no reason to separate just yet. What’s another month or two?”

The Commander looked at him then, studying, but not unkindly. “I thought you’d be more eager to get away. Even if you get sick of your brother and Anders, surely you can busy yourself with other fun things.”

“You’ve never been to Kirkwall, have you?”

“Alistair said it was a charming place until the qunari started attacking people.”

“Most places are.” Carver shifted, fidgeting with the indigo material of his uniform. “I still don’t feel right about leaving, and for that long.”

“I’m sure you’ll have so much fun that it’ll pass before you know it.”

“Maybe. But…” Carver shook his head, shrugging. “I don’t know.”

Silence fell over them, save the continual snoring of Oghren, as Carver avoided the quizzical stare of his commander.

In truth, Carver debated confiding in her or Alistair before about… about certain things, given their relationship. Except doing so would mean he’d actually have to talk about the night before he left for the Deep Roads expedition and…

The distant memory of a sweet laugh echoed, paired with a smile just as adorable. So familiar, so poignant. Eyes like the vivid forest of the Emerald Graves, brightened by battle and triumph. Many evenings spent at the tavern, drinks in hand. Enthused ramblings about everything and nothing. Delicately inked markings over flushed cheeks—

 “Uh, you have mud on your face.”

“Oh? …Did I get it?"

"No, other side, uhm… May I?”

Maker’s breath. He believed he’d outgrown blushing just as he’d outgrown tantrums, but a shame long pushed out of his mind crept back to paint his skin scarlet. In vain effort, Carver ran a hand over his face to wipe the tire from his eyes, and perhaps to hide from the inquiry of his commander.

He’d done so damn well to not dwell on stupid faults anymore. Hadn’t he wasted enough time coping with his own bitterness and remorse for what happened? No matter how many times he replayed it all in his mind, nothing changed—he made a mistake and ruined everything.

“Carver?” Rosalie’s soft voice sent a jolt through his gut. “What’s bothering you?”  

Carver stared into the fire. Or through it, not truly caring to see the mesmerizing dance of the flames. When he spoke, melancholy teased his tongue.

“Merrill.”

Her name hung in the warm night air, unable to be taken back. Real. True. When he finally glanced at his commander, she asked a simple question.

“And who is Merrill?”

Too bad the answer was complicated.

“A girl I knew,” Carver replied quietly. “Before I caught the blight.”

Rosalie nodded, then asked, “A girl you knew, or a girl you knew?”

A silent wince. Carver scratched behind his neck.

“A friend. My only friend from Kirkwall, actually. We…” he trailed off, throat gone dry. He swallowed thickly, shifting uncomfortably and disturbing DeeDee. Alert to the new tension radiating off her master, the heavy nug sat up in search of danger in the surrounding area. “We parted on… I don’t know. Bad terms? No, I- I made an ass of myself and…”

 And he did something he shouldn’t have done; in a moment of quiet tenderness amid a thunderstorm, knowing that morning would come, and he’d spend Maker knows how long in the blighted Deep Roads… he almost kissed her.

He’d hoped that the way she looked at him meant something more, that she went out of her way to spend so much time with him because she returned his affection… but he should’ve known better. Merrill’s heart was kind, and she treated everyone like that; he wasn’t anything special.

“I take it you two haven’t spoken since then?” Rosalie interrupted his thoughts.

“No.”

“And this will be the first time you see each other in…?”

“Five years. Give or take.”

Damn… how has it been that long?

Concerned noises rumbled in DeeDee’s throat as she scrambled up into Carver’s lap, planting her feet against his chest plate, nose twitching up toward his chin. He believed the nug was too smart for her own good, attempting to soothe her unease by scratching her neck. Without thought, Carver said, “I bet she’ll adore you.”

Shit.

Merrill would be there with the rest of them. It’s inevitable that Edgar would drag him to the Hanged Man and there she’d be… sitting at the same table they always sat at as if no time has passed.

“You’ve never written to her, I assume.”

Carver shook his head. “And she’s never written me.”

That’s how he knew. Edgar and Mother wrote him, and Gamlen sent a few letters hoping to squeeze coin out of him. Varric occasionally wrote, too. Even Isabela sent him a package once with a book baring a scantily clad templar on the cover; “it reminded me of you, Little Hawke.”

Not a single letter from Merrill.

“May I ask what you did to make an ass of yourself?” asked Rosalie.

“I told her how I felt.” Carver chuckled, the sound more bitter than he intended. “But she’s Dalish, and since I’m human… well, we all know how that goes.”

“Oh.”

 “It was stupid,” he grimaced. “I didn’t plan it or anything, not exactly. I overthought everything, and it felt right, in the moment. The look on her face… Now I wish I hadn’t said anything at all.”

“I see.”

Carver maneuvered DeeDee off of him, who snorted in protest, settling her comfortably at his side so he could better stretch out his legs. He continued, “I didn’t really have anyone else. We lost everything when we fled Fereldan. No one but mercenaries and thugs wanted to hire me. Ed was always running off without me. Merrill just came to the city from her clan, and somehow we grew close.… I don’t know, we got along. She was odd, very odd; not at all like the other elves in the city. But she was sweet.” He swallowed thickly. “I liked that about her.”

He had liked a great deal about her; kind, witty, perplexing, beautiful Merrill. Brilliance touched her mind in a way that made her, in Carver’s opinion, the most resilient and impressive mage he ever met. Sure, Anders was Circle-trained, and Father taught Edgar and Bethany to wield their magic well, but none of them had the quirks Merrill had. The only comparably skilled mage he knew was Velanna. Maybe it’s a Dalish thing.

The blood magic made him uneasy at the time, but even then he knew it wasn’t inherently evil like the Chantry preached. Merrill never used it when she didn’t have to, nor did she allow it to corrupt her mind. Now that Carver was a Grey Warden and had to stomach everything ugly but necessary, Merrill’s ways with blood magic didn’t seem nearly as consequential. After all, what was the Joining if not a blood magic ritual used to create more Grey Wardens?

But what mattered was she saw him as more than just Hawke’s little brother or the tagalong, she didn’t shy away or grow intimidated by his presence like a lot of city elves did, and she was the truest friend he had in a long time. Carver didn’t quite know how to accept her off-hand compliments or encouragements, even after spending so much time together, but they meant everything to him. If there was ever anyone he cared about in Kirkwall, aside from his brother and mother—and maybe Aveline, if hard-pressed enough to admit it—it was Merrill.

From beside him, Rosalie scooted over to grab DeeDee, who huffed at the Commander for foiling her plans of sneaking back into Carver’s lap. “Just a stab in the dark,” she started, brow arched, “but it sounds like you still care for her.”

“No,” Carver responded, defensive yet surprised at his own firmness. “I mean, it’s not that I don’t care, but I’ve moved on. I’m a Grey Warden. I’m on borrowed time, and I won’t waste it pining over something that’s never going to happen.” He meant every word, too. “I’d rather focus on what’s important, like what we’re doing; fighting darkspawn, and investigating this stuff with Fiona.”

“There will always be an endless pit of darkspawn, and a need for Grey Wardens to fight them. There’ll even be future Blights,” Rosalie said. “And as important as that is, I’m of the opinion that other things can be important, too.” Then, she smirked at him. “That’s why I’m so unpopular with Weisshaupt.”

Carver laughed. “Unpopular? Come on, some of those men wanted to worship you at your feet.”

She wrinkled her nose at that. “And the rest believe I’m a liar and undeserving of my title,” she reminded him. “My point is that I appreciate your dedication to this. I couldn’t ask for a better warrior.”

Pride swelled in Carver’s chest, yet found himself sheepish in looking away.

“But sometimes we need a reminder of what it is we’re actually fighting for,” the Commander continued. “Why devote our lives to a battle with darkspawn to save the world from their corruption if we’ve nothing to save? Why seek a cure to the taint if we’ve nothing to live for?”

A glint caught Carver’s eye; the fire that reflected off the golden band his commander wore and twisted on her finger.

“I have Aria to think of,” she said softly. “And Alistair, and my father. Shianni, Soris and his family. Everyone I left behind and lost in the alienage. Those who fought at my side during the Blight. All of you, and everyone back in Vigil’s Keep. King Cailan, and all of Fereldan. They’re who I do all this for, and—” Rosalie knocked her shoulder with his, “—I think it’ll be good for you to go home and gather your reminders, too.”  

Carver hung his head with a heavy sigh.

His reminders, huh? He already had reminders all around him. Reminders that lived inside him and wore Bethany’s face and crippled Father’s body, that screamed the terror of his fallen comrades at Ostagar, all haunting his nightmares. Every letter he received from his brother. Every thought about Mother that brought the reality that she was gone, and he’d never see her again. Memories of fleeing Lothering as it crumbled. All the little things he tried to ignore because he refused to keep mourning what he and Merrill had.

But… he understood what the Commander meant.

“And I think you and this friend of yours have a lot to discuss.”

“Do we?” he asked dryly. Merrill didn't want anything to do with him now; she made that loud and clear.

With another bump to his shoulder, Rosalie nodded over across the fire to beyond the camp where two familiar figures approached. DeeDee took the opportunity to escape her lap into Carver’s, long ears standing alert as she sniffed the air.

“You’ll have plenty of time to think about it,” Rosalie said, arm raised to greet Sigrun and Zevran. “You have a long journey ahead of you yet.”

Right. Getting back to Kirkwall wouldn’t be a short trip, but he had the coin to make the journey easier. At least this time he wouldn’t spend two weeks in a stuffy ship of refugees. At least DeeDee seemed to like the traveling they did, though how the people of Kirkwall would react to seeing an aggressively protective nug, he didn’t know.

“Look who I finally found!” Sigrun called. “For a while there, I thought he might’ve fallen into a sinkhole or something.”

Zevran laughed, hand pressed to his chest. “It wouldn’t be the first time, but alas, it turns out it’s far easier to break into Weisshaupt Fortress than it is to break out. Who would’ve thought? Usually it’s the other way around.”

“You had our expertise to help get you in,” Sigrun offered with a grin. “Seems that you’re not so sneaky on your own. Or competent.”

“Madam, you wound me!”

“Huh? Whazzat?!” Oghren jerked up, thrashing with drool matted in his beard. “Where are they?!”  Whipping around, recognition slowly spread in his eyes, and he relaxed. “Oh, s’just you.”

“Please, please, my stocky little friend, don’t get too excited at my return,” Zevran snickered, dropping a bag down on the ground. “I know how hard it is to contain yourself. You must’ve been sick with worry at my delay!”

“Bahh!” The dwarf managed to heave himself up to make a rude gesture toward the grinning elf. “I wipe my ass with worry, elf!”

“Smooth, Oghren,” said Sigrun, plopping herself down beside Carver and pulling off her helm. DeeDee eyed her, a cautious noise in her throat as if she believed she was the most intimidating creature in the desert. But Sigrun was hardly deterred, instead giving the nug a quick pat on the head before jerking her hand away with a giggle. One wouldn’t think it, but nugs can bite pretty hard.

Oghren wiggled his brows. “Heh, you’re smooth.”

“Ugh.” Sigrun rolled her eyes, holding her hand out to the nug as a sign of peace, telling DeeDee, “And just like that, I wish I fell into a sinkhole.”

 “Oh yeah? Y’know, ol’ Oghren can show you a real—”

“Oghren,” Rosalie snapped, shooting him a stern warning. The dwarf promptly shut up with only a further small grumble.

There was some strange comfort found in the fact that while Carver wasn’t always the most charming flirt or some suave womanizer, at least he wasn’t Oghren. He almost felt sorry for the man and both of his failed marriages… until he opened his mouth. The Commander seemed to be the only one he’d listen to when told to shut up.

“Come now, put away all the sour looks,” said Zevran, rummaging through his pack and shooting a smile at Carver. “I understand we’re to part ways soon, yes? I came across something terrifying yet intriguing among the racks when I crossed through the cellars on my way to the archives, and thought to myself, ‘Why, this could lead to a great many mistakes, potential trysts in the sand, and headaches in the morning. I must take it! This will give our rugged warrior something to remember us by while he’s off galivanting without us!’”

A dark, glass bottle with a worn, burgundy label was brandished for the group to see. Oooh’s sounded from the group. But, Of course, this piqued the interest of Oghren the most, who sniffed at the air as if he could tell what the unopened bottle contained through that snout of his.

Carver eyed the bottle. “Is that…?”

Sigrun clapped her hands together, startling DeeDee. “It is!”

“Fine dwarven ale!” Zevran laughed, admiring the bottle. “Old, too, given the layers of dust I had to blow away and how the label crumbles off at the touch.”

“Well, shave my ass and call me a nug!” Oghren hollered gleefully. “You actually did something of worth, elf!”

Rosalie scoffed. “Yes, because infiltrating Weisshaupt Fortress was a small feat.”  

Oghren gave a dismissive wave, then gripped at the air for the bottle like a hungry baby. “Whattya waitin’ for? Give it here!”

“Ah, ah, ah, I think not,” Zevran wiggled a condescending finger at the dwarf. “I did not steal this for you, my smelly friend.” The agile elf circled around the group to hand Carver the bottle with a wink before settling down beside Sigrun. “If anyone gets the first drink, it’s our dear friend who we must tragically part from soon.”

“But—but… augh,” Oghren conceded, though reluctantly. “Fine. But don’t go drinkin’ it all!”

“I don’t think you have to worry about that,” the Commander laughed. “One shot of that will knock you on your ass.”

“Hah! Maybe for a dainty little elf!”

Heavy in his grip, the black liquid inside sloshed thick against the glass, and while he couldn’t smell it, Carver still felt like gagging. Dwarven ale—nasty shit, like a sickly skunk pissed in a bottle of wine. Made the memory of the swallow at the Hanged Man seem luxurious.

Yet he couldn’t contain his wide, dimpled grin.

“Thinking of me, were you?” he asked Zevran.

“Your figure tends to dance across my mind at inopportune times, I admit,” the elf teased back.  “It is such a shame that once you depart, the only ruggedly handsome shoulders I’ll have left to admire are the ones in my memories.”

“Pfft,” Carver attempted to shrug that off, but the flattery flushed the tips of his ears anyway. “Sorry, Zev, it’ll take more than this to sweet talk me.”

“Is that so?” Zevran smirked. “I will keep that in mind.”

“Hey!” interjected Oghren impatiently. “If you two girlies are done paintin’ each other’s nails, let’s get drinkin’ already!”

“Keep talking, ass face, and I’ll let Sig down the whole thing,” threatened Carver.

“You wouldn’t!”

“I would!”

“Ooooh, can I?” asked Sigrun gleefully. “Bet I could do it all in one gulp!”

“Heh, there’s a woman after my own heart.”

It’s amazing how quickly the man could switch from temper tantrum to perverted in a blink of an eye.

With a dubious look toward the Commander, who gave Carver an encouraging nod, he uncorked the bottle. The sickening scent was like a fist to the face, and DeeDee made an offended squeal as she attempted to knock the bottle from his hand.  

“Ah, as foul as I remember,” Rosalie recoiled, leaning away from Carver and coughing. “It’s like I’m back at Tapsters.”

“Maker, when was the last time we had this stuff?” he cringed, keeping the bottle in the air away from DeeDee. “After Ivun’s Joining?”

“Poor guy,” Sigrun said, snatching up the protesting nug to hold her close. “Made him drink darkspawn blood, then he survives only for us to give him a mug of dwarven ale to celebrate. I'm surprised he didn’t flee then and there. Or die, I guess.”

“Aye, that was a good night,” chuckled Oghren.

“I heard one of the groundskeepers found you face-down in the gardens in nothing but your smallclothes the next morning.”

“Heh heh, sure gave that old hag a good scare.”  

A disappointed sigh from the Commander.

“It was worth celebrating,” added Carver, growing solemn. “We finally had someone survive the Joining in… Maker, months? A year? I think it was well deserved.”

A murmur of agreement from everyone, then all eyes turned to him, anticipating the first sip of the bottle. A short sniff of the rim was enough to burn his throat. While he wasn’t as familiar with the ale as the dwarves were, Carver never forgot the taste or the way it burned his guts the first time he tried it.

“On the march to Ostagar, one of the soldiers in my unit brought a whole keg of this to camp,” he began. “Never heard of it before, but everyone said you had to be tough to stomach it.” Carver’s confidence faltered a little. “I was barely eighteen. Never had anything more than cheap beer before, but I wanted to impress all the older soldiers so they’d take me seriously. When it was my turn, I chugged down a full mug without stopping.”

Rosalie shook her head knowingly. “Oh no.”

“They were amazed until I vomited in the bushes.” Luckily, he built up a better tolerance since then, so Carver raised the bottle in a toast; “To a successful infiltration of Weisshaupt, and to finding our cure.”

One gulp. A second.

Everything inside him wanted to die a death even the taint couldn’t fathom.

Cold sweat perspired on his skin, and his heart raced.

A gagging cough.

“Gah, fucking void!” he choked.

All around him a joyous laughter erupted, and Carver found he was laughing through the pain, too. For good measure, as if his guts didn’t hate him enough, he took another swig.

“Shit! That’s—” he rasped, coughing. “That’s… pretty weak shit.”

Oghren threw his head back with an obnoxiously loud chortle. “Atta boy! Looks like you do have some stones on ya, after all!”

“Ha! Just for that, I’m drinking the rest!”

“What? HEY! PASS IT HERE, NUG-HUMPER!”

The bottle eventually made it Oghren, but not before the others had a taste, with Sigrun nearly downing the rest out of pure spite. She was nice enough to leave him an amount that wouldn’t even get DeeDee drunk. And yes, he pouted and grumbled for the rest of the evening before retiring to his tent.

Sleep didn’t come as easy to Carver as it did the drunken dwarf. Some nights were better than others, depending on where the day took him. Though the ale in his belly helped, it did little to fend off the anticipation of morning, nor did it keep his mind from wandering.

Kirkwall awaited him. A whole month spent living in an estate with his brother, being… normal. Whatever that meant. Familiar places and faces…

As he lay there in his tent, DeeDee curled up at his side, a murmur escaped his lips.

“I am a Grey Warden. I’m a damn good warrior. Let them see me as such.”

And let Merrill…

“Hang what Merrill feels. I don’t care anymore.”

A huff from DeeDee.

“I don’t care.”  

Maybe if he said it enough, he’d believe it.