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In good times and in bad	By : kruemel Category: +A through F > Dragon Age (all) > Dragon Age (all) Views: 14749 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: Dragon Age and the characters of the game do not belong to me. This is a no profit fanfiction

Chapter List
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Despite Orzammar being closed down, Rori still wants to give it a try. So the next morning, when we both kinda feel able to get up after a night of drinking with Varric Tethras, we're on our way up the huge staircase that leads to the impressive gates of Orzammar.
"What do dwarves need such a huge gate for?" I wonder, squinting my eyes at the bright morning light. It's not particularily sunny but with my splitting headache and a major hangover, everything is just too much. Too loud, too bright, too everything.
"Maybe they want to compensate something?" Rori ponders. Her condition is not any better than mine. I had to carry her to our room last night - which was not easily achieved as I could hardly walk myself anymore. I only got her out from under the table because Varric was kind enough to get her for me. Now, thinking about it, he dragged me out of there, too.
"Yesterday I warned you, yes I did, and I told you to not come running to me," Wynne scolds from behind as Rori and I drag each other along, groaning and complaining all the way.
"How can she be so... awake?" Rori groans. "She drank more than we did together."
In front of the gates we witness an argument between the guards there and some of Loghain's boot lickers.
"King Loghain will not suffer the delay of his appointed messenger!"
"Wow, he didn't waste time, did he? King Loghain... I think I am going to be sick," Rori mumbles. "Could also be the ale, though..." For a moment I fear, she's really going to vomit right onto the boots of the enraged messenger. She hiccups loudly, making the messenger turn and glare at her.
"This land is hold in the trust of the sovereign dawrven kings. I cannot allow entry at this time," the dwarven guard says firmly and utterly unimpressed by the boot licker's rant.
"King Loghain demands the allegiance of the deshyr or lords or whatever you call them in your Assembly. I am his appointed messenger."
"Wow, he's smarter than we thought," Rori yawns, stretching like a cat. "He at least figures he needs some help."
"After murdering almost all Grey Wardens and his rightful king and starting a civil war while a Blight is taking place. Very smart indeed," I snort.
"I don't care if you're the king's wiper," the guard informs the so called messenger. "Orzammar will have none but its own until the throne is settled."
Rori's hiccup has grown louder the more she tries to suppress it. The guard finally takes notice of her. "And what would you want?" he asks unnervedly.
"We have important business in Orzammar," she hiccups, trying to sound important - and failing miserably. All the guards see is a small girl with a shock of red curls, her huge eyes making her even more look like a child - and she's obviously in an aftermath of being heavily drunk.
"Gal, sleep off your hangover," the guard advices almost fatherly, returning Rori's crooked smile.
"None more important than mine!" the messenger snaps, his eyes scanning over her in contempt.
"Your business will wait," the guard informs us. We should have brought him a drink. He seems to need one.
"Why have your people retreated like this?" Rori slurs, swaying so badly, she tumbles against me. I catch her and begin to sway as well. It's Shale keeping us from tumbling down the whole staircase.
Maker... I will never again drink with a dwarf and that blasted granny mage.
"They hide because they are dwarves," the boot licker sneers.
"Oh... and Loghain ran away from the battle because he's a treacherous bastard," Rori says sweetly, her hiccup making her words hardly understandable. That Wynne starts to cough loudly next to her at the very same time prevents the messenger from hearing any of it.
The dwarf takes no offense. He's got some nerves. You put someone with a temper like Rori's in his spot and the messenger would find his ass being kicked down the stairs right now. The guard explains about the dead dwarven king and how they have trouble deciding on a new one and are facing a civil war.
"Are you having a déjà-vu, too?" Rori mutters.
"Yeah, sounds somewhat familiar," I agree. Boy, this means trouble. I bet we're going to end up in the line of fire. We're that lucky, you'll see. "Still, shouldn't we do something to get out of the cold and get done what we have to do?"
"I am a Grey Warden. This treaty obliges Orzammar to aid me." Rori pulls herself together and manages to get out a comprehendible coherent sentence - in between her hiccups. She fumbles around in her backpack until she finds the treaties, then drops them while fishing the right one out of the waterproof satchel. The wind picks them up and sends the pages flying.
"Fuck!" Rori exclaims, standing there like a fool as she watches the pages being blown away. I stand next to her in retarded companionship. Things like that only happen to Rori. And me. If not for that awful headache I'd be really worrying about becoming king now. But all that pops up in my mind is: Blast, there fly our treaties!
Thankfully there's also some sober people in our party. So Zevran, Shale and Sten chase after the treaties while Rori hands the dwarven one to the guard, grinning sheepishly.
The guard quirks an eyebrow at her. "Grey Warden, huh? Gal, if this is a drunken joke I will personally kick your pretty little ass down these stairs."
"Sorry. Got challenged by a dwarf yesterday night. Didn't think it would turn out that bad," Rori admits compunctiously, causing the guard to chuckle.
"The Wardens killed King Cailan and nearly doomed Ferelden! They are sworn enemies of King Loghain," the boot licker screeches, causing both Rori and me to flinch.
"Nonesense!" Rori hisses and spins around to face the messenger. It's impressive how quickly she can sober when she's angry. "Loghain, that treacherous backstabbing bastard, ran away from the battlefield and left his king alone to die! It was his fucking plan to light that damn beacon! And then he didn't show up!"
"How dare you!" the messenger breathes, straightening to tower over her. Considering Rori's height, towering over her is not that difficult. Being used to it, she stays rather unimpressed and just continues to stare the man down defiantly.
"Well, that is the royal seal," the guard mutters, unperturbed by Rori and the boot licker spitting at each other. "That means only the Assembly is authorized to address it. Grey Warden, you may pass."
"You're letting in a traitor? And a foreigner?" the messenger cries out in disbelief.
"No, he doesn't. The traitor's assigned messenger has to stay outside," Rori says sweetly, retrieving the treaties from the dwarf - and from our companions. They have thankfully managed to catch all of them before they got blown away. Now, that would have sucked, wouldn't it?
"In the name of King Loghain I demand that you execute this... stain on the honour of Ferelden!"
"Hey!" Rori and I exclaim. "If there's a stain, then it's Loghain himself," Rori rants on, fists clenched at her sides, red curls bopping around wildly on her head, she looks like a vengeful little imp. "That filthy, stinking heap of... of..."
"Pigeon crap," Shale prompts.
"You're not going to insult King Loghain, you deceitful slut," the boot licker roars, motioning towards his men to draw their swords.
"That's enough! Raise your blade if you're so tough," Rori hisses like a cat. If she had claws she'd dig them into him now. She reaches for her own swords when I step in, pulling her away from Loghain's men.
"This is neither the right time nor the right place for a fight. Rein in your temper." I say more calmly than I actually feel. I am seething inside, Rori's outbreak voicing my concealed anger. Rori swallows hard as she looks up at me, tears of anger and frustration welling up in her eyes. "I know," I whisper, gently caressing the side of her face with the back of my hand. "But this man here did not kill your family." She inhales deeply, trembling with the effort to control her anger. "You're a Cousland, Rori. " I remind her.
I watch her fight with her own emotions and succeed. She sheathes her swords and straightens, turning towards the messenger and his men with her blue eyes glowering icily at them. "Run to your false king. " she coos in a dangerously calm and low voice. "The dwarves will not hear him today."
The messenger's eyes grow wide as he looks at her, trying to decide how dangerous a little girl like her could possibly be. His eyes dart towards me, then Sten and Shale and the mages... "You... you'll hear of this. King Loghain will see you quartered," he threatens.
"There's only one rightful king of Ferelden and that's not Loghain," Rori replies calmly. "I do not fear this king. Loghain, however, should do so."
"The bastard prince," the messenger sneers and spits out. "He will face the same fate as you do!" And off they march.
What a way to start the day when you got a major hangover! I wish I hadn't crawled out of bed at all.
"All the darkspawn are fleeing the underground, and we are going there," Sten comments when the guards push the door open for us. That gives us quite an audience as all the people in the market below crane their necks to see what's going on.
"We're going there to fetch the dwarves and be right up here again before the darkspwan even notices we were gone," Rori says, sounding slightly unnerved.
"Are we... descending into the underground?" Morrigan breathes. "The thought of so much rock over one's head is... disquieting."
"Afraid?" I tease, regretting it instantly when Morrigan glares at me like a viper would regard a rabbit.
"Now, let's see if we can make these dwarves live up to their promises," Rori sighs, tiredly.
We can't.
Well, not at once.
They need to have a king first - and guess, who's supposed to get this straight for them?
Yep.
Didn't I tell you?
It's time to go into a huddle.
"Watch out for that puddle of.....whatever it is." Leliana warns when we approach the Tapster's Tavern, a noisy and smelly place packed with noisy and smelly and most of all drunken dwarves.
"What is that smell? Dwarven vomit? Charming." I wrinkle my nose, sidestepping the puddle Leliana pointed out.
"Is that drunken singing I hear?" Wynne chuckles, clapping her hands giddily. "They are such a merry little people."
"I hope that is someone being murdered and not simply singing," Shale mutters. It at least cannot smell. But it can hear the wailing that reaches our ears whenever the door is thrust open and someone either stumbles in or out.
"Ha, drunken dwarves! What could be the harm in a few of those?" Zevran laughs, obviously the only one delighted by the outlook of us entering that tavern.
"Soooo... are we going in?" I ask, nudging Rori. She wears an utterly horrified expression, her eyes growing wider and larger when a redhaired dwarf without any pants comes staggering out of the door, almost running over Rori. He grabs her around the waist for support and - as he has just the right size - presses his face right at her bosom.
"Hello big-titty," he slurs drunkenly, wiggling his eyebrows at her as he looks up. "You and I, bucking the forbidden horse?" When he begins thrusting his hips at her to punctuate his intentions, Rori and I snap out of our stunned stupor. I grab the deviant bastard by the collar of his shirt - that he thankfully is still wearing, although it covers nothing at all - at least not the parts that require being covered - and yank him away from Rori. She at the same time grips his hair and pulls at it forcefully, while kicking at his most private and mostly exposed parts.
"Hey! Hey! No need to get all rowdy!" the dwarf grunts and lets go of her, holding his hands up in defense when I am about to punch him. "I'll be gone..." He scratches himself between the legs, snorts some snot onto the streets and waddles off. On his hairy buttocks there's a heart shaped tatoo reading 'Branka forever!'
"...I should have stayed in that cage." Sten remarks, watching the dwarf leave.
We press and push past the mass of dwarves to enter the tavern. What has looked bad from the outside looks even worse when inside.
"Oh, wonderful! A dwarven tavern! I’ve always wanted to try some of their ale. I hear it’s quite potent." Wynne says with delight. Maker! How can she even think about alcohol after last night? She seems unaware of what is going on around her or she doesn't care. For someone to complain about my hideous habits and filthy socks, she suddenly can endure a whole lot more stench and filth than she can around me.
The bar is crammed with dwarves. There's something like a small stage, consisting of a board resting on several barrels. On that stage there's a band and a fat dwarven woman wails at the top of her voice. It sounds as if someone is pulling her teeth out.
There's roaring laughter and shouts. Dwarves on benches and chairs and tables and under benches and chairs and tables. A pair of them is even sitting on the chandalier dangling from the ceiling. And they all sing along with the wailing woman.
"Is this some form of mass suicide?" Sten mumbles in pure blank horror. If he ever reports back to his Arishok the dwarves are due for an invasion.
The smell is... it's indescribable. I mean, my socks smell bad. Barkley smells bad. Foul eggs smell bad. Old fish smells bad. But this... this is worse. Far worse. There's a thick cloud of smoke rising from several pipes, it reeks of sweat and unwashed bodies, old and fresh vomit, of beer and cabbage. The mixture is making me gag. Rori is ashen. She'd probably leave again right away if she wasn't pushed forward by the crowd streaming in.
"Ugh!" Morrigan shudders. "Just... do not buy anything. Or touch anything. Or... sit anywhere."
Rori ignores Morrigan's advice and slumps down on a bench at a sticky looking table.
"Behlen, Harrowmont, how should I know who makes the better king?"Rori groans, banging her head at the tabletop repeatedly. When she sits up, she frowns and wipes her forehead. "What's that? It's... sticky... ewww..."
"Told you so," Morrigan mutters. She stands there, trying to avoid any contact with anything as she glares daggers at any dwarf daring to ogle her.
Rori orders Barkley to take care of her and the dog licks her face clean. Mental note to myself: Make sure to wash Rori's face with water before kissing her again.
"I neither know Behlen nor Harrowmont. They don't even want to talk to me but want me to support them? I'm a Grey Warden, not a kingmaker."
"Well, you've done quite a lot already to make Alistair king," Leliana points out. She wipes the bench clean with her handkerchief and finds it gets stuck there. So she just sits on the handkerchief.
"That's different. I know he would be a good king," Rori says firmly.
"I wish I had your confidence," I mumble.
"So, what do you know about dwarves?" Leliana inquires. She's the only one looking thoroughly pleased with the whole situation.
"They are small, live mostly underground, dig for lyrium in the Deep Roads and dwarven ale tastes like cat piss set on fire."
"I tried dwarven ale once." I pull a face at the memory. I got so violently sick I thought I would die. Duncan just laughed and said it was the same for him when he had his first try. "I thought it was just something they tricked surfacers into drinking, as a joke."
"I once drank a thimble of dwarven ale," Leliana giggles and grimaces just like I did. "Woke up a week later in Jader wearing nothing but my shoes and a towel."
Zevran wiggles his eyebrows at her. "You don't happen to think about giving it another try, do you?" he purrs.
"No," Leliana says firmly.
"I've never tasted it," Rori admits. "Cat piss on fire, that's what Father told me. Maric used to carry around a flask with dwarven ale and sometimes he let others take a sip, mostly when things got tough. "
"Do you know that dwarven ale isn't truly ale at all?" Zevran asks, while waving at the waitress. "And it's black. Marvelous!"
"Unless you don't want to have Behlen and Harrowmont decide who should rule in a drinking contest, we can forget about that piece of information," Leliana sighs.
The waitress comes and takes our orders. When it's Rori's turn, she asks for a glass of water, causing the waitress to stare at her as if she ordered dragon blood on ice.
"Please?" Rori groans - and finds herself sitting in front of a pint of firewater ten minutes later. "Maker! These dwarves try to kill me. They will prove more effective than the Antivan Crows if they go on like this."
"We have to make a plan." Leliana impatiently taps her fingers at the tabletop. "First, we have to find out as much as possible about Behlen, Harrowmont and dwarven culture. We split up. Everybody takes a look around. Talk to people. Find out what they think about the candidates."
"And then?" Rori asks, sniffing testingly at the firewater.
"Then we decide who to support."
"And what if we later find out it was a bad choice?"
"As long as the king is not yet crowned, we can always switch loyalities."
"We can?"
"Of course sweetheart. People do that all the time. And we will have all the dirty information then to blackmail them. It's the Game."
"And you know how to play it?"
Leliana smiles so sweetly, it makes me shudder. There's a wickedness in this smile I would have not expected to find in the shy Chantry sister. Eagerly she leans closer until we all stick our heads together. And in a hushed, excited whisper she begins to fill us in on her plan. "Listen..."
Half an hour later my head is spinning and I am utterly confused. "Am I the only one with a headache now?"
"No," Rori groans, returning to banging her head at the table. "This is worse than having to listen to Father explain Orlesian politics."
"Did you understand anything she said?" I ask hopefully.
"No. Did you?"
"Not at all."
"Don't worry, Roristair." Leliana pinches both mine and Rori's cheek. "Just do what I say and you'll be fine."
"Now," Rori remarks sourly. "I feel like a complete retard."
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In good times and in bad