Summerday Braid, or Funny Enough
by Cryptographic DeLurk

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There was nothing substantial to it. Oghren palmed through the collection of letters and reread the most recent one. He hoped to find some dry tinder in it, something that might set Fury alight and feed her. But there was nothing.

Felsi at her most unforgiving, stern, and downright insulting was still too noble and too right. And even as he grasped for some uncharitable thought – how terrible a mother she'd be, just like his old woman – he found it rolling away like water. Felsi would be a great mother. She'd do right by their little nugget, so long as Oghren made sure she had money for food and safe lodging and the boy's schooling. And that was, really, the least Oghren could do. He'd talk to Mistress Woolsey about diverting a portion of his stipend to her.

He imagined Mistress Woolsey's crisp and perfunctory approval with him, when he'd petition her this way. She never wrinkled her nose too much at his stench, even though she never drug out conversations longer than they had to be. It felt like pity, which made Oghren feel limp and sad instead of angry like he needed.

He palmed the dresser, knocking over the various bottles of expensive spirits collected on their travels, until he found the one he wanted: Hirol's Lava Burst. It tasted like burning. 160 proof. More than enough to catch fire and burn the whole place down with rage. He swallowed, and it hit Fury like cold, wet hail.

Damn finicky spirit, Oghren thought. Though he didn't really blame her. They just needed to be out fighting darkspawn again, swinging an axe and raging against endless tunnels and the Archdemons. And every one of their blighted ugly wrinkled nug's ass faces, Oghren reimagined as a face from Orzammar. Every instructor that had taught him to fight, and every pompous Diamond Quarter poser, and every fan he'd ever had at the Provings.

But the rage died too quick, with no place to funnel it. And it was Summerday at the Keep, which was some religious holiday for the humans. They'd called in a singer from their Chantry, and musicians, and everything was spread over the lawn at the Vigil with feast tables and baskets and flower garlands. It was delicate. For a buncha girls and nug-licking pansies. Not like the feasts they'd had cheering around bloodsport in Orzammar. (Although, truth be told, Oghren wasn't sure if he'd tolerate those feasts any better now. He'd become much more focused since Fury. They both wanted to be out on the Deep Roads again.)

Oghren sat, trying and failing to work up a quiet fume as he trimmed and tightened the braids in his beard. It was an art – how much sandalwood oil and spiced rum and how many flecks of fish to leave in – maximum shine and flavour and still repulsive enough to be funny. Fresh for the holiday. He considered braiding in some ribbon, but that might be mistaken for actual effort, which would not be funny.

He finished the Lava Burst, and came down to the feast already in progress, already tipsy.

The others avoided him. No claps on the shoulder for Oghren as he let himself stumble on the way to the ale barrel. All sodding Nathaniel Howe's fault, Oghren thought bitterly. They all seemed to take after him, quiet and dour and judgy. Oghren had half a mind to, er, well, give the man a piece of his mind!

Oghren refilled his tankard, and then grabbed another empty one from the pile – one for the road and a spare – and set off to find Nathaniel Howe.

He was scanning the crowd, laid out on benches set through the Vigil's courtyard and out the gates over the rolling hills, and ended up losing that spare drink sooner than intended when Dworkin Glavonak collided with him.

The ale spilled right down Oghren's front, and the empty wooden tankard bounced uselessly against the lawn, before rolling to a stop against the handle.

Hey! Why don't you watch where you're going, you stupid nug licker! is what Oghren thought to say, with Fury licking at his gut. But he was rather beaten to the punch.

"Oi! Watch where you're headed, Warden!" Dworkin barked. "You're gonna get us both blown up that way! And even Voldrik won't be able to say it was my fault!"

Dworkin was hurrying to pick up some keg he'd dropped, while balancing a mess of bottles, streamers, tins, and sticks in his arms. Nothing large or fancy looking.

"Heh, what?" Oghren chuckled, feeling a bit put-out. "You think a little baby cracker the size of my big toe is enough to take out old Oghren?" He'd had worse.

"I'll hear you say that once you've seen what my fireworks can do later," Dworkin said. "If you're not lying dead drunk in a ditch before then."

He hurried along before Oghren could say anything to that. And Oghren took a moment to wipe the worst of the spilt ale from the flat leather vest he had on over his tunic. Soaked, sod it. He took another gulp from the tankard he had left and continued his search.

Oghren found Nathaniel Howe sitting at the edge of a bench directly across from Sigrun and Velanna. They were all in their own little world, ignoring the oppressive, gloomy aura that had settled on the nearest bench.

Nathaniel had a garland of white daisies strung around his dark hair, and Velanna was weaving another one in her hands with a pinched expression on her face. And Oghren was sure they thought they were being discreet, but they weren't. He could see Nathaniel's and Velanna's ankles tied together through the gaps under the bench, and Sigrun was leaning into Velanna's side. And Oghren didn't know what all the ladies saw in some namby-pamby like Nathaniel.

Except, you know, the whole quiet and stoic and mysterious act. And the unfailing politeness. And air of nobility. And the broad shoulders. And sharp jawline.

And Sigrun- She was a good dwarven woman and- Er, really she reminded Oghren a little of Branka. Not that their personalities were similar, but she had the same round face that made her look younger than she was, even when it was covered in soot and tattoos and old scars. It was… It was… Fury didn't seem to have his back on this one. And Oghren didn't have the words to explain it by himself, but he dug some up anyhow.

"Nice pair of buns you got there," he swung into Sigrun's line of sight. "What do you say we sign 'em up to go bouncing on Oghren's old bronto ride?"

"Hello, Oghren," Sigrun said, in jaded monotone.

"If you ignore him, maybe he'll stop paying attention," Velanna suggested, without looking up from the garland. "Like a mutt begging for treats."

"And hello to you too, twiggy," Oghren said.

Velanna was steadfast in taking her own advice. She tied the last of the garland, and began arranging it over Sigrun's head. Oghren heard her whisper: dearest.

"And you!" Oghren said, pointing accusingly at Nathaniel. "I got a bone to pick with you!"

Nathaniel sat up straight in his seat. "Yes, Oghren? Speak your mind. You always do."

Oghren floundered for what he had meant to say, but after a few grunts and snorts all he could think was that Nathaniel just wasn't funny enough. And that just didn't cut it.

Oghren sighed. "Actually, I guess you're alright." He took a levelling sip from his tankard. "Yeah, you're alright." Not funny. With none of the joyful irreverence. Just as much of a pansy. But alright.

"Well, thank you for telling me," Nathaniel said diplomatically, with the slightest edge of a smile. "I appreciate it."

Unfailingly polite. And neither he, nor Sigrun, moved over so Oghren could sit next to them on the edge of the bench.

There was a heaving sigh from the bench across the aisle.

By the name of his Ancestors, Oghren missed Anders.

Oghren huffed to himself. He meant- Of course, he didn't! He didn't miss anyone! Not that he could be bothered to care about all those people Anders and Justice slaughtered on the way out of the Keep. But Justice was a joyless stodgy pile of rot. And even though Anders talked a good talk, at the end of the day he'd been a cocksucking coward in a dress. Better off without 'em.

And that Anders, well- Anders had laughed at him, but he joked and smiled too- And that Oghren smelled like a bouquet of roses so long as he was standing next to a rotting corpse- And that the both of them would always leave a place for Oghren to sit next to them at meals- Well… they were gone. None of that stuff mattered now, did it?

Oghren sighed, because now he and Fury were feeling sad again. And the only upside so far as he could tell was there was someone missing Anders at least twice as much as him, having a miserable time on the next bench.

"Ancestors, Oghren, you smell like a brewery," Sigrun was scoffing. "It's only an hour past midday. The festivities have barely started. How much have you had?"

Sigrun was looking at his soaked vest with a pitying little smirk. And Velanna was looking elsewhere, but the curling sneer playing on her lips did not seem entirely coincidental.

All of this was deeply unfunny, and didn't even have the courtesy to be enraging, so Oghren took the rest of his tankard and upended it over his mouth. He caught a big gulp in his mouth, weak and sour, and the rest sloshed through his beard and over his clothes.

"Haha! Asschabs!" he guffawed.

Oghren had meant it to be funny, but it didn't appear to produce the desired reaction at all.

"Eww," Sigrun squealed, with a disgusted wrinkle of her nose.

"Repulsive," Velanna said scathingly, still not meeting his eyes.

Even Nathaniel frowned – his stoicism disrupted by the slight bit of judgement that flitted across his face.

Oghren was about to give the whole day up for a wash, when there was an amused chuckle from the next bench.

Something warm and well and flattered bubbled up in Oghren's stomach. Or maybe it was just stomach gas. But that didn't explain why Oghren felt himself waver and, prompted by a nod and a gesture from Nathaniel, went to sit across from Jean-Marc Stroud.

Stroud was still shaking with silent laugher and, after a moment, wiped the tears from his eyes. Some had rolled down over a crooked moustache and ugly uneven stubble – where his beard used to be.

"My apologies," he said. "You are a very funny dwarf. Warden Oghren, was it?"

"Yup, that's my name, heh," Oghren agreed. "Don't go wearing it out now."

"Stroud," Stroud introduced, unnecessarily. "I apologise. I have not laughed like that since… Well… I'm sure you've heard all the rumours by now."

About fraternisation. Canoodling with abominations. The state those templar bodies were found in. "Aye," Oghren agreed. He'd heard all about that. Not as if it made as much of an impression as the filth he'd had to listen to Anders croon about over bad hands of Diamondback.

(Just place your damned bet already! Oghren had growled. Or are you gonna tell us how good a lay he is next?)

(Anders had. In vivid detail.)

Oghren thought about telling Stroud that he'd been a friend of Anders's (kinda). He probably shouldn't mention he'd been a friend of Justice's (kinda). Probably didn't feel too good to get jilted for a corpse.

Nah, no, not you, Oghren reassured as he felt Fury press listlessly against his mind. You're better than some fuddy duddy old spirit like Justice.

He was still gathering his wits when Stroud said. "You have quite a marvellous beard. Those braids must take a lot of maintenance."

"Oh, er, not too much," Oghren grumbled in protest. He felt like he'd been caught out on something. People didn't usually recognise the kind of commitment the beard braids took.

"Nonsense," Stroud said. "The hair is very bright and healthy looking. I can tell it's been well manicured. Although," he squinted, "you seem to have a bit of…"

He fished a handkerchief out of his pocket, and by the time Oghren realised what he was doing, he had reached across the bench and began picking a few of the larger flakes of fish from the beard.

Oghren could hear Sigrun snicker at him and, quite frankly, he should have thrown the other man off by now. Hey! What do you think you're doing?! Hands off! But Fury seemed to come alive as she hadn't all day, warming him from fingers to toes. And it wasn't with rage but-

Oghren cursed every one of his ancestor's fat behinds. Maybe this was just what he got for making a pact with a girl spirit.

"There. Much better," Stroud announced, as he flicked the pieces of fish down into the grass. Stroud sighed, as he folded the kerchief. "Truthfully, I wished the holiday would end sooner rather than later… I would rather be back on assignment."

"A man after my own heart," Oghren heard himself say. And- Ugh! That better have been Fury, because he was getting rather gooey otherwise. It certainly felt like Fury, with the way he felt himself bristle with anticipation at the thought of smashing Darkspawn skulls against the ground.

"Perhaps we will both be put out on assignment first thing tomorrow." But Stroud's smile was absent, and he appeared to be drifting back into his previous state of gloom.

Oghren considered a moment, and then sighed. He could blame Fury all he wanted, but Oghren couldn't deny that this was that least sad he'd felt all day. And if a few warm fuzzies were all it took to keep Fury happy until they got back out on the Deep Roads-

"You know, heh," Oghren tried. "Your own beard. It's really not looking too good."

"Indeed," Stroud agreed. "I shaved most of it off this morning, simply because I could no longer stand to look at it. I have not decided what to do with the rest."

"Well, er-" Oghren stammered. "I could probably give you a few tips if you wanted. Get you some oil to grease her up. Trim the rest. Decide on a brand spanking new look."

"Wow, Oghren, you really can act like a person if you try," Sigrun cut in.

"Well, yer uh-" Oghren failed to pin down an insult to throw back at her. "Sod it," he sulked.

Maybe there would be other problems for later. Fraternisation. Canoodling with abominations. The way Oghren and Fury raged and would rip Darkspawn and every bit of Orzammar apart with their bloody bare hands.

But for the moment, the only thing that seemed to matter was the way Stroud snapped back from his reverie and smiled just a little. "I think I would like that."

..

Fin.