Swooping in with fic!
Secret Swooper Gift for lauresque
Title: Wearing Thin the Stone
Author: stillskies
Rating: PG-13 due to Oghren.
Genre: Character study/romance
Pairing: f!Aeducan/Oghren
Other Characters: Leilana, Gorim, Alistair, Wade, Herren, Sten, Zevran, Morrigan
Wordcount: 2,900
Summary: Sereda Aeducan attempts to move forward, with unlikely - and sometimes unwanted - help.
Authors' Notes: So. This is my first time writing for Origins, as well as any Origins character. That being said, I do hope that you enjoy it and that it's at least somewhat what you wanted. ♥
Also, the line about the Stone towards the end is actual dialogue before the party splits off for the final battle.
"So," Oghren's voice says near her ear. "Bhelen."
The fire crackles and she feeds more brush into it. The heat is pleasant in the cool air of the evening, and if she stares into the glow of the flame for long enough, Oghren may take the hint and leave. The other dwarf is a reminder of what she has twice lost; she does not regret her decision to join the Wardens, and had thought herself long past her brother's betrayal. Time, it seems, does not heal all wounds, nor does absence make the pain of betrayal fade.
Rather than taking the hint as the rest of her… companions did, Oghren settles down next to her and lifts a bottle. When she looks in askance, he misinterprets and shrugs. "My own special brew," he explains, cheerfully ignoring her pointed look. "Would share it with ya, but I don't think you could handle it." His eyes are bright with challenge as he puts the bottle in front of her.
She is not dim-witted; she can clearly see through this charade, but settles for seeing where the path will take her. After all, he is the only other of her kind among them, one who served the Warrior Caste faithfully until the Paragon's dismissal, and where she will not take comfort from the Surface Dwellers, she will take the vague resemblance of Oghren's challenge. She takes the bottle and takes a swig.
It is bitter on her tongue and burns unpleasantly on the way down. She can feel his eyes on her, and she resists the urge to wince or cough. Memories of Trian standing over her as she rises to her feet, having been once again bested in combat, wiping any trace of pain from her face lest Trian see her as weak, come to the surface. There is a faint look of disappointment on Oghren's face when she shows no outward signs of discomfort, but there is also a grudging look of admiration.
"Never would have thought you'd crown Bhelen," Oghren says as he watches her take another swig. "Bloody nug-humper and kin slayer, is what he is."
She shrugs and hands him the bottle. "Harrowmont would never have been able to hold them, despite what Father may have thought," she says reluctantly. She hadn't wished to crown Bhelen, but she could see no other way to keep the growing tension from erupting into a bloodbath.
The bottle is handed back and forth until there is nothing left but the pungent fumes of crudely made alcohol. She feels lightheaded and unbearably warm underneath her leather tunic. Rather than disrobing, she kicks off her shoes and tosses her gloves behind her; if her feet and hands can breathe, the rest of her will cool, as well.
"You know, Warden," Oghren begins, and there is no slur in his words. She envies him his tolerance; were she to speak, the words would be no more recognizable than the burbling of nearby brook. "You're not too shabby."
It takes a moment to get enough control of her mouth to make the words separate, but she replies carefully and slowly. "You should expect no less."
Oghren chuckles and the sound warms her in a way that the alcohol never touched. It has been entirely too long if Oghren is becoming a viable option. She pulls her attention back to what he is saying rather than the sound of it and uses what she can remember of her training to keep her thoughts from becoming further muddled.
"Aye," Oghren is saying. "I'd have crowned Harrowmont to spite Bhelen."
The conversation is tiring, and she grabs her gloves and boots and attempts to stand. Oghren's hand is there, steadying her. She does not try to pull away; the sudden movement would upset her already precarious balance. Instead, she allows him to lead her to her tent, aware of the eyes that follow their slow journey.
There will be rumors in the morning, snide looks and pointed comments from Morrigan, giggles and knowing glances from Leilana and Zevran. She will deal with them in the morning, she decides; she prefers the rumors of her not-present love life infinitely more than the derisive comments that would come from her falling about as she tried to walk.
Oghren opens the flap and lets her stumble inside, using his girth to block her ungraceful entrance from the curious eyes of the camp. She is about to thank him when he grins and says, "Not as unaffected as you appear, eh?"
Before she can get her wits about her to retort, the flap of her tent is closed and he is gone.
***
They are in the village of Haven, following Brother Genetivi's trail. Oghren is staring lasciviously at the few women who quickly pass them, bantering with Zevran about orgies and chains. She is quickly forming a headache and contemplating allowing the two men to have their wish; somehow, she believes that they would be far more manageable trussed up like banquet nugs at a feast. The thought brings a smile to her otherwise grim face.
Alistair looks at her askance and she simply shakes her head. The former Templar would find her musings entertaining, but his loud laughter would draw even more unwanted attention than Zevran and Oghren's unfailing flattery at anything that appeared to move. Alistair shrugs and continues on, hurrying to catch up to where Zevran was cheerfully attempting to pick a lock.
She is shaking her head at Zevran's lack of subtlety - there are eyes everywhere, and whatever element of surprise they may have had is long since forfeit - when she notices Oghren watching her. His silent gaze has been following her since Denerim. She assumes it has something to do with Gorim; after all, their affair was no more quiet than Behelen's with his Duster mistress, and it would be a reasonable assumption that Oghren had heard of it long before their acquaintance.
Rather than shying from his gaze, she meets it squarely. They do not have the luxury of time for her to break; the horde is closing in, and she doubts the Archdemon will be so kind as to announce its arrival with enough time for them to prepare. Her mind must be free from distraction and focused on the task at hand, and they need Arl Eamon's backing at the Landsmeet. Oghren gives her a terse nod, as if he is comforted by the weight and steadiness of her gaze before turning back to Zevran, who has long since opened the door and has peeked his head out to say that there is something of interest in the empty house.
Alistair motions for her to precede him, and she enters the house, driving thoughts of Gorim and Oghren's persistent gaze from her mind.
***
The dragon scale falls with a heavy thud on the counter in Master Wade's shop. Herren looks at her with dismay as Wade falls over himself with ideas. She waits for him to calm down before telling him exactly what she desires be made from the scale.
"There will be no more after this," she assures Herren. There is no imperiousness in her tone; merely simple fact. Dragons are far rarer than drakes, and doubly hard to kill. Her body still aches from the fight and her sides are awash in colorful bruises.
"I can make a lighter set of dragonskin armor, heavy dragonscale armor, or dragonbone plate," Wade states matter of factly, ignoring Herren's increasingly disbelieving look.
"Dragonbone plate," she tells him.
"It will be the work of hours," the armor smith assures her and disappears with the scale.
They are leaving the shop when Alistair places a hand on her shoulder, allowing Zevran and Morrigan to continue on ahead. Once they are a suitable distance away, he motions for them to follow. She can hear Zevran complementing Morrigan's bosom yet again just before Alistair speaks.
"Dragonbone plate seems a bit heavier than you usually wear," Alistair says conversationally, leveling an amused look at her. "Seems something that someone else would wear."
"We are to fight an Archdemon, Alistair," she says calmly. "I am merely ensuring that there are as few casualties as possible."
"So the rest of us are also getting such fine armor, then?"
She glares at him, and he graces her with a smile. He begins to walk to a little faster when she calls out to him. "I'll be sure to tell Leilana that those shoes were from you, then."
The pleasure of seeing Alistair's face a bright shade of red quells her own embarrassment, and she hurries forward to rejoin the other two members of her party.
***
She does not like goodbyes, but it seems that she has no choice in the matter. They have circled around her, and, one by one, proceeded to say their farewells. The words are discomfiting and she remains silent throughout, praying to the Ancestors to let this end and the fighting begin.
Slowly, they break into their groups; Sten is gathering those not going into the city proper and giving orders, at home at last on the battlefield. Alistair watches this with an unreadable expression and pulls his gaze from the group as Leilana nocks an arrow into place and lets it fly toward the gates.
"Let's get going, then," Oghren says, and she nods. Alistair and Morrigan follow them through the gates; Morrigan flings a fire spell at the nearest darkspawn, and the one in front of Alistair falls as an arrow lodges itself between its eyes. Her own daggers are out, slashing at anything in her path as she swiftly cuts a path through the throng.
When from the blood of battle the Stone has fed, let the heroes prevail and the blighters lie dead. She chants this in her head as they make their way further into the city.
***
When dawn breaks, the Archdemon is dead, Morrigan is gone, and the rest of her party stands victorious. She is scarce able to believe that they have all escaped relatively unscathed. By the disbelieving look on Alistair's face, she is not the only one.
There is barely a moment to exchange a triumphant grin with Oghren before the cheers erupt and Eamon's army descends upon them, lifting them into the air and carrying them to Eamon's estate to be cleaned and presented to the populace.
It seems as though she is put through the wringer, and it is far more exhausting than hours of training for Commander, though her drills are replaced with water and scented powders. She shakes them off and reaches for her armor, to the dismay of the attendants, but they allow her to dress herself before encircling her. She assents to them doing her hair and her face-paint; she has not paid much attention to either since the campaigns began, feeling no need to impress anyone with looks that she could not otherwise impress by steel.
Before she knows it, she stands on the dais with Alistair and Anora, and listens as Alistair addresses the hall brimming with lords and ladies. They look prepared to believe anything, so long as the threat is gone and order restored, so they give her no more than a passing look before proclaiming her 'Hero of Ferelden.' Alistair finishes his speech, and she quickly descends from the dais.
Gorim is standing off to the side, and there is a flash of relief on his face as she approaches him. "You are being made a Paragon," he informs her. The shock renders her speechless; Gorim apparently takes this as a good sign and continues. "Our exile has been revoked and we are wanted in Orzammar."
Eyes burn the back of her neck, and she knows without looking that it is Oghren. After all, surely he must know what Gorim is telling her now, must have assumed it ages ago. He had once been married to a Paragon; above all, he would know what the Assembly deems as an act worthy of elevating a dwarf to Paragon status. She does not look back; instead she continues to stare at Gorim in silence.
"And," Gorim is continuing, voice giddy with excitement, "if you will have me, I would be honored to serve as your second again."
"You've a child on the way," she replies; her voice is steady, and for that, she is glad. "I will not take you from your family, Gorim. Nor will I return to Orzammar presently."
Sadness etches itself on Gorim's face, but he gives her a stiff bow, regardless. "If that is what my lady wishes," he says, straightening. "I will be ever waiting for your command, as always. No matter how long it takes for it to reach me."
She nods and turns away. She can hear the heavy tread of armored boots as they make their way through the hall and she stays until they are covered by the rising chatter of the assembled masses.
***
Alistair has fitted her with enough provisions to last even the most frivolous of people a month. She is not so frivolous, and figures she can stretch her rations and sovereigns for a quarter of a year without needing to purchase anything. Leilana and Sten are waiting for her as she exits the castle, and she does not spare it a backwards glance. She has had her fill of castles and royal hospitality; she knows that she will be expected to appear before the Assembly and Bhelen, but that can wait.
Sten nods at the pack approvingly and she takes a breath. Leilana suddenly smiles as clanging sounds behind her.
"Wait up," Oghren calls out, and she can hear his huffing breath stop behind her. She turns to find him standing, hands on his knees, taking in deep, shuddering breaths. His armor gleams in the early morning darkness and there is a hastily packed rucksack at his feet. "Sod it all, do we always have to leave so bloody early?"
Leilana shrugs. "It is the life of an adventurer, I think," she says. "Besides, the boat leaves at first light; it waits for no one, not even the Hero of Ferelden."
Taking pity, she picks Oghren's rucksack from the floor and begins moving towards the city proper; if they hurry, they will beat the rising of the sun and not have to wait for the next boat. Sten would not appreciate the prolonged wait due to tardiness, and securing the Quanari's respect was a task that she would rather not repeat.
They reach the docks as the first light of day turns the sky from black to softer shades of blue and pink and red. Sten gruffly tells them to wait and disappears.
"This is where I leave you," Leilana says softly.
"I thank you for your help," she tells the Bard, who flushes with pleasure.
"May the Maker guide your feet and light your path," Leilana intones before gathering her things and heading towards the other end of the docks. She watches as Leilana boards the ship and disappears.
They are alone for the moment; Sten has yet to return, and only the most dedicated are at the docks at this hour, though she has doubts as to their coherency. She watches as a few sailors wipe sleep crust from their eyes while still others yawn and fight to keep awake.
"Why are you here, Oghren?"
Oghren shrugs. "Told ya you had my ax."
She raises her eyebrows. "You intend to stay topside, then? Bhelen has lifted the ban keeping Surfacers from returning." She pauses and shrugs. "For now, at least."
"There's nothing for me in Orzammar," Oghren says quietly. "Hasn't been for a while now. At least up here, there's a use for my ax and enough gratitude to keep my belly full and my thirst quenched."
There is no arguing that with him, so she nods and stares out at the ocean. Aside from the short ride across Lake Calenhad to reach the Circle Tower, she has never seen or been on such a large body of water. The water appears calm and the waves gently lap against the ships' sides.
"Are you intending to stay topside?"
The question is not unexpected, and she would be remiss in saying that she has not given it much thought. She has not come to a satisfying answer, but she gives him what she knows. "For now. I will need to return to be inaugurated as Paragon, and there are loose ends to tie with Bhelen." A white bird swoops and glides across the surface of the water, a fish hanging from its beak. "But for now, I will remain topside."
Sten returns and stares at them grimly. "Are you ready?"
She and Oghren look at each other. Oghren nods. "Yes," she tells Sten, who nods approvingly.
"Then let us be off."
They follow Sten up the plank and onto the ship. She pauses as she steps foot on the deck and looks back. She is not sure when she will return, only that she will. Oghren stops beside her and grins.
"I've got some of my special brew," he tells her. "Care to see if you handle it better on open water than you do on land?"
She smiles back and nods.
Title: Wearing Thin the Stone
Author: stillskies
Rating: PG-13 due to Oghren.
Genre: Character study/romance
Pairing: f!Aeducan/Oghren
Other Characters: Leilana, Gorim, Alistair, Wade, Herren, Sten, Zevran, Morrigan
Wordcount: 2,900
Summary: Sereda Aeducan attempts to move forward, with unlikely - and sometimes unwanted - help.
Authors' Notes: So. This is my first time writing for Origins, as well as any Origins character. That being said, I do hope that you enjoy it and that it's at least somewhat what you wanted. ♥
Also, the line about the Stone towards the end is actual dialogue before the party splits off for the final battle.
"So," Oghren's voice says near her ear. "Bhelen."
The fire crackles and she feeds more brush into it. The heat is pleasant in the cool air of the evening, and if she stares into the glow of the flame for long enough, Oghren may take the hint and leave. The other dwarf is a reminder of what she has twice lost; she does not regret her decision to join the Wardens, and had thought herself long past her brother's betrayal. Time, it seems, does not heal all wounds, nor does absence make the pain of betrayal fade.
Rather than taking the hint as the rest of her… companions did, Oghren settles down next to her and lifts a bottle. When she looks in askance, he misinterprets and shrugs. "My own special brew," he explains, cheerfully ignoring her pointed look. "Would share it with ya, but I don't think you could handle it." His eyes are bright with challenge as he puts the bottle in front of her.
She is not dim-witted; she can clearly see through this charade, but settles for seeing where the path will take her. After all, he is the only other of her kind among them, one who served the Warrior Caste faithfully until the Paragon's dismissal, and where she will not take comfort from the Surface Dwellers, she will take the vague resemblance of Oghren's challenge. She takes the bottle and takes a swig.
It is bitter on her tongue and burns unpleasantly on the way down. She can feel his eyes on her, and she resists the urge to wince or cough. Memories of Trian standing over her as she rises to her feet, having been once again bested in combat, wiping any trace of pain from her face lest Trian see her as weak, come to the surface. There is a faint look of disappointment on Oghren's face when she shows no outward signs of discomfort, but there is also a grudging look of admiration.
"Never would have thought you'd crown Bhelen," Oghren says as he watches her take another swig. "Bloody nug-humper and kin slayer, is what he is."
She shrugs and hands him the bottle. "Harrowmont would never have been able to hold them, despite what Father may have thought," she says reluctantly. She hadn't wished to crown Bhelen, but she could see no other way to keep the growing tension from erupting into a bloodbath.
The bottle is handed back and forth until there is nothing left but the pungent fumes of crudely made alcohol. She feels lightheaded and unbearably warm underneath her leather tunic. Rather than disrobing, she kicks off her shoes and tosses her gloves behind her; if her feet and hands can breathe, the rest of her will cool, as well.
"You know, Warden," Oghren begins, and there is no slur in his words. She envies him his tolerance; were she to speak, the words would be no more recognizable than the burbling of nearby brook. "You're not too shabby."
It takes a moment to get enough control of her mouth to make the words separate, but she replies carefully and slowly. "You should expect no less."
Oghren chuckles and the sound warms her in a way that the alcohol never touched. It has been entirely too long if Oghren is becoming a viable option. She pulls her attention back to what he is saying rather than the sound of it and uses what she can remember of her training to keep her thoughts from becoming further muddled.
"Aye," Oghren is saying. "I'd have crowned Harrowmont to spite Bhelen."
The conversation is tiring, and she grabs her gloves and boots and attempts to stand. Oghren's hand is there, steadying her. She does not try to pull away; the sudden movement would upset her already precarious balance. Instead, she allows him to lead her to her tent, aware of the eyes that follow their slow journey.
There will be rumors in the morning, snide looks and pointed comments from Morrigan, giggles and knowing glances from Leilana and Zevran. She will deal with them in the morning, she decides; she prefers the rumors of her not-present love life infinitely more than the derisive comments that would come from her falling about as she tried to walk.
Oghren opens the flap and lets her stumble inside, using his girth to block her ungraceful entrance from the curious eyes of the camp. She is about to thank him when he grins and says, "Not as unaffected as you appear, eh?"
Before she can get her wits about her to retort, the flap of her tent is closed and he is gone.
***
They are in the village of Haven, following Brother Genetivi's trail. Oghren is staring lasciviously at the few women who quickly pass them, bantering with Zevran about orgies and chains. She is quickly forming a headache and contemplating allowing the two men to have their wish; somehow, she believes that they would be far more manageable trussed up like banquet nugs at a feast. The thought brings a smile to her otherwise grim face.
Alistair looks at her askance and she simply shakes her head. The former Templar would find her musings entertaining, but his loud laughter would draw even more unwanted attention than Zevran and Oghren's unfailing flattery at anything that appeared to move. Alistair shrugs and continues on, hurrying to catch up to where Zevran was cheerfully attempting to pick a lock.
She is shaking her head at Zevran's lack of subtlety - there are eyes everywhere, and whatever element of surprise they may have had is long since forfeit - when she notices Oghren watching her. His silent gaze has been following her since Denerim. She assumes it has something to do with Gorim; after all, their affair was no more quiet than Behelen's with his Duster mistress, and it would be a reasonable assumption that Oghren had heard of it long before their acquaintance.
Rather than shying from his gaze, she meets it squarely. They do not have the luxury of time for her to break; the horde is closing in, and she doubts the Archdemon will be so kind as to announce its arrival with enough time for them to prepare. Her mind must be free from distraction and focused on the task at hand, and they need Arl Eamon's backing at the Landsmeet. Oghren gives her a terse nod, as if he is comforted by the weight and steadiness of her gaze before turning back to Zevran, who has long since opened the door and has peeked his head out to say that there is something of interest in the empty house.
Alistair motions for her to precede him, and she enters the house, driving thoughts of Gorim and Oghren's persistent gaze from her mind.
***
The dragon scale falls with a heavy thud on the counter in Master Wade's shop. Herren looks at her with dismay as Wade falls over himself with ideas. She waits for him to calm down before telling him exactly what she desires be made from the scale.
"There will be no more after this," she assures Herren. There is no imperiousness in her tone; merely simple fact. Dragons are far rarer than drakes, and doubly hard to kill. Her body still aches from the fight and her sides are awash in colorful bruises.
"I can make a lighter set of dragonskin armor, heavy dragonscale armor, or dragonbone plate," Wade states matter of factly, ignoring Herren's increasingly disbelieving look.
"Dragonbone plate," she tells him.
"It will be the work of hours," the armor smith assures her and disappears with the scale.
They are leaving the shop when Alistair places a hand on her shoulder, allowing Zevran and Morrigan to continue on ahead. Once they are a suitable distance away, he motions for them to follow. She can hear Zevran complementing Morrigan's bosom yet again just before Alistair speaks.
"Dragonbone plate seems a bit heavier than you usually wear," Alistair says conversationally, leveling an amused look at her. "Seems something that someone else would wear."
"We are to fight an Archdemon, Alistair," she says calmly. "I am merely ensuring that there are as few casualties as possible."
"So the rest of us are also getting such fine armor, then?"
She glares at him, and he graces her with a smile. He begins to walk to a little faster when she calls out to him. "I'll be sure to tell Leilana that those shoes were from you, then."
The pleasure of seeing Alistair's face a bright shade of red quells her own embarrassment, and she hurries forward to rejoin the other two members of her party.
***
She does not like goodbyes, but it seems that she has no choice in the matter. They have circled around her, and, one by one, proceeded to say their farewells. The words are discomfiting and she remains silent throughout, praying to the Ancestors to let this end and the fighting begin.
Slowly, they break into their groups; Sten is gathering those not going into the city proper and giving orders, at home at last on the battlefield. Alistair watches this with an unreadable expression and pulls his gaze from the group as Leilana nocks an arrow into place and lets it fly toward the gates.
"Let's get going, then," Oghren says, and she nods. Alistair and Morrigan follow them through the gates; Morrigan flings a fire spell at the nearest darkspawn, and the one in front of Alistair falls as an arrow lodges itself between its eyes. Her own daggers are out, slashing at anything in her path as she swiftly cuts a path through the throng.
When from the blood of battle the Stone has fed, let the heroes prevail and the blighters lie dead. She chants this in her head as they make their way further into the city.
***
When dawn breaks, the Archdemon is dead, Morrigan is gone, and the rest of her party stands victorious. She is scarce able to believe that they have all escaped relatively unscathed. By the disbelieving look on Alistair's face, she is not the only one.
There is barely a moment to exchange a triumphant grin with Oghren before the cheers erupt and Eamon's army descends upon them, lifting them into the air and carrying them to Eamon's estate to be cleaned and presented to the populace.
It seems as though she is put through the wringer, and it is far more exhausting than hours of training for Commander, though her drills are replaced with water and scented powders. She shakes them off and reaches for her armor, to the dismay of the attendants, but they allow her to dress herself before encircling her. She assents to them doing her hair and her face-paint; she has not paid much attention to either since the campaigns began, feeling no need to impress anyone with looks that she could not otherwise impress by steel.
Before she knows it, she stands on the dais with Alistair and Anora, and listens as Alistair addresses the hall brimming with lords and ladies. They look prepared to believe anything, so long as the threat is gone and order restored, so they give her no more than a passing look before proclaiming her 'Hero of Ferelden.' Alistair finishes his speech, and she quickly descends from the dais.
Gorim is standing off to the side, and there is a flash of relief on his face as she approaches him. "You are being made a Paragon," he informs her. The shock renders her speechless; Gorim apparently takes this as a good sign and continues. "Our exile has been revoked and we are wanted in Orzammar."
Eyes burn the back of her neck, and she knows without looking that it is Oghren. After all, surely he must know what Gorim is telling her now, must have assumed it ages ago. He had once been married to a Paragon; above all, he would know what the Assembly deems as an act worthy of elevating a dwarf to Paragon status. She does not look back; instead she continues to stare at Gorim in silence.
"And," Gorim is continuing, voice giddy with excitement, "if you will have me, I would be honored to serve as your second again."
"You've a child on the way," she replies; her voice is steady, and for that, she is glad. "I will not take you from your family, Gorim. Nor will I return to Orzammar presently."
Sadness etches itself on Gorim's face, but he gives her a stiff bow, regardless. "If that is what my lady wishes," he says, straightening. "I will be ever waiting for your command, as always. No matter how long it takes for it to reach me."
She nods and turns away. She can hear the heavy tread of armored boots as they make their way through the hall and she stays until they are covered by the rising chatter of the assembled masses.
***
Alistair has fitted her with enough provisions to last even the most frivolous of people a month. She is not so frivolous, and figures she can stretch her rations and sovereigns for a quarter of a year without needing to purchase anything. Leilana and Sten are waiting for her as she exits the castle, and she does not spare it a backwards glance. She has had her fill of castles and royal hospitality; she knows that she will be expected to appear before the Assembly and Bhelen, but that can wait.
Sten nods at the pack approvingly and she takes a breath. Leilana suddenly smiles as clanging sounds behind her.
"Wait up," Oghren calls out, and she can hear his huffing breath stop behind her. She turns to find him standing, hands on his knees, taking in deep, shuddering breaths. His armor gleams in the early morning darkness and there is a hastily packed rucksack at his feet. "Sod it all, do we always have to leave so bloody early?"
Leilana shrugs. "It is the life of an adventurer, I think," she says. "Besides, the boat leaves at first light; it waits for no one, not even the Hero of Ferelden."
Taking pity, she picks Oghren's rucksack from the floor and begins moving towards the city proper; if they hurry, they will beat the rising of the sun and not have to wait for the next boat. Sten would not appreciate the prolonged wait due to tardiness, and securing the Quanari's respect was a task that she would rather not repeat.
They reach the docks as the first light of day turns the sky from black to softer shades of blue and pink and red. Sten gruffly tells them to wait and disappears.
"This is where I leave you," Leilana says softly.
"I thank you for your help," she tells the Bard, who flushes with pleasure.
"May the Maker guide your feet and light your path," Leilana intones before gathering her things and heading towards the other end of the docks. She watches as Leilana boards the ship and disappears.
They are alone for the moment; Sten has yet to return, and only the most dedicated are at the docks at this hour, though she has doubts as to their coherency. She watches as a few sailors wipe sleep crust from their eyes while still others yawn and fight to keep awake.
"Why are you here, Oghren?"
Oghren shrugs. "Told ya you had my ax."
She raises her eyebrows. "You intend to stay topside, then? Bhelen has lifted the ban keeping Surfacers from returning." She pauses and shrugs. "For now, at least."
"There's nothing for me in Orzammar," Oghren says quietly. "Hasn't been for a while now. At least up here, there's a use for my ax and enough gratitude to keep my belly full and my thirst quenched."
There is no arguing that with him, so she nods and stares out at the ocean. Aside from the short ride across Lake Calenhad to reach the Circle Tower, she has never seen or been on such a large body of water. The water appears calm and the waves gently lap against the ships' sides.
"Are you intending to stay topside?"
The question is not unexpected, and she would be remiss in saying that she has not given it much thought. She has not come to a satisfying answer, but she gives him what she knows. "For now. I will need to return to be inaugurated as Paragon, and there are loose ends to tie with Bhelen." A white bird swoops and glides across the surface of the water, a fish hanging from its beak. "But for now, I will remain topside."
Sten returns and stares at them grimly. "Are you ready?"
She and Oghren look at each other. Oghren nods. "Yes," she tells Sten, who nods approvingly.
"Then let us be off."
They follow Sten up the plank and onto the ship. She pauses as she steps foot on the deck and looks back. She is not sure when she will return, only that she will. Oghren stops beside her and grins.
"I've got some of my special brew," he tells her. "Care to see if you handle it better on open water than you do on land?"
She smiles back and nods.