Part 7
In the morning, Moira was in the foyer of the Tower, trying to figure out how to fit three pounds of lyrium and enough vials and concentration agents for it in hers and Zevran’s pack. Cullen was suddenly there, looming over the two of them crouched on the floor. Moira stood up, dusting her hands off. She was in a similar outfit from yesterday, just in black leather and wool with a white shirt. It made her skin seem translucent and her eyes glow with a blue fire. When she’d answered the door this morning, Zevran’s eyes had traveled from her face, down to her toes and back up again, grinned lazily, not a single sign of his temper last night, and then said, “Are you sure we must leave? Right now?” Moira made a mental note to wear black around Alistair more.
Apparently, Cullen agreed with Zevran’s earlier comment, he swallowed and flushed, glancing away. He was wearing armor that didn’t fit him quite as well as his Templar armor did. She could see gaps that would stand out like red flags if they were attacked. “Have you decided to come?” She asked, her hands on her hips.
He met her eyes again, “Yes, if you’ll allow me. Greagoir’s made it clear there’s nothing for me here.”
Moira nodded sharply, “Fine, take a third of the lyrium supplies. We’ll get you better armor on the other side of the lake.”
His eyes widened, “I . . . I have no money for that.”
“Consider it a gift. If you’re going to be fighting by my side . . . our side, I can’t have you going down like a ten copper street **** in Denerim.” She heard Zevran choke back a laugh behind her. Cullen’s icy façade even cracked enough for a smile. “Good, I’m glad we’re in agreement.” She turned to look at Zevran, “Looks like we’ll be paying a visit to The Griffon’s Rest, after all.”
Zevran grinned, “I’m sure Oghren would be glad to stand us a pint or two.”
“Or three or four,” Moira finished, handing the third pack Zevran just finished filling to Cullen.
“Wait, it’s barely dawn! A pint?” Cullen objected.
Zevran shook his head, “My dear Templar, you’ll have to learn that as an adventurer and fighting man, you will take your pleasures as you find them. A pint for breakfast merely gets the blood flowing.” He looked at Moira, “That depends, however, if one isn’t . . . unwise . . . enough to challenge our dwarven friend to a drinking contest over breakfast and then try to walk all day afterwards.”
Moira laughed, “Hey! No telling tales out of school!”
“I am merely trying to tell our Templar friend the . . . challenges . . . he might face traveling with us,” Zevran grinned and arched his eyebrows.
“Let’s get going. I don’t have time for you to stand around all day and malign my character,” Moira said, laughing. She picked up one of the packs and looked down at her Mabari. “You have it easy. All you have to do is stand around and look menacing, the rest of us have to haul your breakfast.” The Mabari panted in that short way that meant he was laughing.
The Tower was quiet. Only the servants were up at this hour and the ever present Templar door guards who were ignoring them. Greagoir and Irving had opted not to see her and her friends off. She couldn’t blame them, she’d rather be snug in a warm bed at this hour, too. With Alistair.
The trip across the lake wasn’t too bad, though she worried what would happen if Cullen fell overboard in that ill fitting, heavy armor. Zevran sat in the prow, sharing an apple with Perrin. No one spoke, the ferryman filled the silence with his own voice, chattering about things Moira didn’t listen to. It had been ages since she’d seen Oghren. She wondered how he and Felsi were doing. She and Alistair had divided the money they’d collected on their adventures between everyone else. After all, the king of Ferelden and his chancellor wouldn’t need the coin. Shale and Wynne had taken their money and traveled to Tevinter to find a cure for Shale’s golemnization. Lelianna had taken her money to finance the search for Marjolaine. Sten, well, Sten did whatever it was Qunari do with money. It probably paid for his travel back to his homeland, but beyond that, Moira didn’t really know what he’d done with it. Morrigan had left, melted away in the night after the Archdemon was slain, Alistair’s child quickening in her belly, refusing material assistance. Oghren had wooed Felsi and bought the Spoiled Princess and renamed it The Griffon’s Rest. Zevran had stayed in Denerim, of course. She didn’t really know what he’d done with the money, either. She made another mental note to ask him one day. She laughed to herself silently, wondering if she’d ever read these mental notes.
The Griffon’s Rest looked almost no different from The Spoiled Princess. The biggest change was the benches and tables out front. Oghren had apparently taken to liking the sky since his exile from Orzammar. The exterior of the inn was also in much better repair than it had been under its previous owner.
Oghren was out front, even at this ridiculously early hour. The sun was just peering over the treetops. Oghren was sitting on one of his benches, a pint next to him on the table, watching the sunrise reflect off Lake Calenhad. The dwarf looked odd without his armor, he was dressed in plain grey trousers and vest over a blue shirt. Moira felt her face crack into a huge grin at seeing one of her old friends sitting happy and content. After all, that was what she and Alistair had fought for. Not necessarily to save Ferelden, but to save all their friends. Oghren had been headed for the Deep Roads himself, probably as a member of the Legion of the Dead, before two green Grey Wardens had recruited him to their cause. Now, he was sitting enjoying a sunrise with his favorite beverage. The door to the inn opened and shut and a small child ran out to throw himself? Herself? Onto Oghren for a hug. Moira felt her heart catch. She glanced over at Zevran and realized he was grinning from ear to ear, too. The dwarf finally noticed their approach and set his child down, his thick red beard split by a broad grin.
“Moira! Zevran! It’s sodding good to see you!” the dwarf’s gravelly voice carried across the grass. Moira quickened her pace and knelt down to give the dwarf a hug. He no longer felt as solid as he once had, but then, he’d probably not needed to pick up an axe and kill a glenlock in a while, either. Before she could ask after Felsi and the little one currently hiding behind her father, Oghren glared up at the Templar at Moira’s back. “Still collecting lost Chantry flunkies, Moira?” The Dwarf’s voice had hardened as he glared up at Cullen.
Moira, confused, looked from one to the other. Cullen merely glared down at both of them. Oghren crossed his arms and planted his feet as if ready for a fight. “Cullen?”
“I questioned him about lyrium missing from the Tower,” Cullen said, scowling and looking away.
“He came in here, insulted me, picked a fight with one of my waiters and trashed my common room.” Oghren looked at Moira, “Apparently, he’d forgotten who my friends are. As if I’d do anything to upset you or the boy.” Oghren looked back at Cullen, “If he’d asked nicely, I could have told him the rumors I’d been hearing. Hmpf.”
Cullen had the grace to look embarrassed. Moira’s legs were cramping from crouching in front of Oghren. Zevran had already claimed a bench and was silently watching the dwarf and the human. Moira caught his eye and he shrugged one shoulder, cryptically. She moved to sit on the bench opposite the other elf. Her stomach took the opportunity to rumble, loudly. Oghren laughed, his attention pulled back from anger at the former Templar. “Moira, go tell your mother to get four pints of ale and bring us some breakfast. Tell her the Grey Warden’s here.”
Moira’s eyes widened at the name he’d given the little dwarf girl. She had her mother’s adorable face, and Oghren’s bright red hair done up into two braids pinned at her crown. Wordlessly the child scampered off, flinging open the tavern door and allowing it to slam shut behind her. Moira directed her wide eyed stare to Oghren. Zevran laughed. “Is she as much a handful as her namesake?” He asked the dwarf.
Oghren laughed loudly, “She’s certainly trying to be! She’s not old enough to do much, but she started talking in full sentences immediately. She didn’t have a first word, she had a first command!” The pride in his voice was unmistakable.
Moira felt a lump in her throat, she couldn’t seem to swallow around. Zevran laughed, “I think you rendered our dear Moira speechless, Oghren!”
Oghren laughed louder. When he finally calmed down, “Stop looking at me like that, Warden. You saved me, down there in the Deep Roads. Naming a child after you was a small favor. Haven’t decided if we’ll name the next one after the boy, though. He’s probably got enough children under the age of two named for him. Ran into sodding Alista and an Alistaira the other day. About made me ill, naming girls after the boy and not you.” Felsi came out of the tavern at that point, carrying a steaming platter of food outside. Moira felt the familiar clench in her stomach, watching Oghren’s wife, his very pregnant wife, carry their food out to them. Not for the first time, she rubbed her abdomen surreptitiously. It didn’t happen often, but it did hurt to see a woman carrying a child while she knew she could not. At least, not Alistair’s child. And that was what really rankled about Morrigan.
She smiled in greeting, however, just as brightly as when she’d approached Oghren. Zevran beat her and Oghren to getting the platter from the diminutive woman, however. Once relieved of the platter, Felsi came over to greet Moira. The two women embraced, Moira bending around the baby. While the food was on the table, the talk turned to Felsi and the upcoming birth of Oghren’s second child. The sun climbed higher in the sky.
It wasn’t long before the platter sat empty and even Cullen looked to be less irritated on a full stomach. The two dwarves sat closely together on the bench they shared, little Moira on Oghren’s knee. Oghren belched and took another swallow of ale. “So, what brings you out of Denerim, Warden?” The dwarf refused to call her Chancellor, as if being a Grey Warden and their senior officer outranked a mere bureaucrat. In a way, Moira guessed he was right.
She and Zevran exchanged a glance. Before she could say anything, Zevran spoke, “Alistair’s gotten himself in trouble.” Cullen looked up at that. Moira figured he was also curious as to why she and Zevran were traveling around.
Oghren sat his pint down hard. “The sodding boy can’t even stay out of trouble as King?”
Zevran shrugged. “The Grey Wardens ordered him to Weisshaupt.”
Oghren looked at Moira out of the corner of his eye, “I thought you were the sodding Warden Commander? Why wouldn’t they summon you, instead? And why would that boy think leaving his sodding kingdom for any reason a good sodding idea?”
“They must have gotten wrong information. Or perhaps, since he’s technically senior to me and king, they made an assumption. A wrong one, but an assumption, nonetheless.” She sighed, “Or perhaps, like I told him, it’s because I’m an elf.” And a woman, she added silently.
Oghren snorted and Zevran chuckled. Cullen merely watched her. “Someone else underestimating you, Warden. I never sodding get tired of that,” Oghren laughed.
“So, we stopped by to get Cullen some better armor. I can’t have him fighting in that junk,” Moira waved her hand vaguely at the ex-Templar. “And to see if you’d heard any rumors.”
Oghren ran a considering eye over the big man. “By the stone, the Chantry forge you boys from the same mold?” He glanced an amused eye at Moira, “Now, no sodding getting this one confused for the other one some dark night, Warden.” He laughed uproariously at his own joke. Moira and Zevran joined him, used to Oghren’s sense of humor. Cullen turned a bright scarlet and stormed off.
Moira stopped laughing first. That man needed to relax. It might be a good idea to talk to Zevran about taking him to the first ****house they came to. She took a long drink of her ale as the others’ laughter died down. “What rumors?”
Oghren nodded to Felsi and the dwarven woman took their daughter and disappeared inside the tavern. He looked down at his pint. “Someone’s been buying up lyrium. Sometimes even stealing it. And no, not like we did to keep you and Wynne and Morrigan in fighting form. This is ridiculous amounts. Merchants have ended up dead for not selling.” Moira and Zevran looked at each other, each thinking of the bandits that had attacked them on the way to the Tower.
I like your writing because it gets to the point, though
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