Savreen finds Oghren in the first place she looks: Tapster's Tavern. It does happen to be one of the very few taverns in the city, but it is also the same one mentioned by Loilinar during the course of their overheard argument. When she asks the bartender if he's seen an Oghren, the man snorts and jabs a thumb in his direction without so much as a word. Savreen's quarry sits in the back, up the stairs and tucked away in a dark corner, nursing a flagon of ale. Alone. The same shock of red hair Savreen had seen when they stumbled across him and Loilinar marks him out, though the skin of his face is remarkably more flushed now than it was then, nearly the same shade of red where it blurs into his long braided mustache. She approaches him equally as alone as he is, without even Sher at her side. The others have their jobs to be ready for the Deep Roads, and she has hers.
"Is this seat taken?" Savreen asks, motioning to a somewhat rickety bench. The dwarf looks up at her with bleary eyes, squinting as though her face swims in front of him.
"Why?" It is plain he distrusts her, and that will have to be remedied. She does not sit—not just yet.
"I am told that you are Oghren." Oghren scoffs, taking another drink before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes, Savreen notices when he looks back at her, are not just bleary, but also remarkably sad.
"'Told'? By whom? What'd they say? 'Oh, that Oghren, the drunkard. To find him, just look for the man that pisses ale and kills little boys who look at him wrong.' Figures." Bitterness nearly strangles his slightly slurring voice, and he clears his throat before continuing. "They're mostly right, 'course. But the part they never say is how I'm the only one still trying to save our only Paragon, and none of them will bother lifting a finger to help." He finishes the ale in his flagon with a long, slurping gulp, and then reaches for a mostly empty pitcher set on the table before him, meaning to refill it.
Savreen stops his hand.
"May I sit and discuss the matter with you?" Once more, he looks up at her as though struggling to see her face—though this time, his eyes are a bit more alert. The struggle is less literal, more one that seeks her character.
"Who are you? Why do you care?" Oghren asks, but he doesn't tell her to go, and so now, Savreen sits.
"Does it matter?" She's being a touch more secretive than is really necessary, deflecting more than maybe she ought to, but there is something refreshing about not being known. What's more, there's also something refreshing about asking Oghren for a favor, rather than him asking her. Besides, if he's the one asking the questions, that means he wants to know who she is. He wants to hear her out. He's interested, and that means he's more likely to agree to come with them. Oghren looks away from her for a moment, swirling his flagon in his hand and eyeing the pitiful dregs of liquid within. When he speaks, it's in a knowing tone.
"The city's been buzzing with talk of some Grey Wardens, working for Lord Harrowmont." She smiles.
"And what do these Wardens look like?" Shrugging, Oghren reaches once more for the pitcher, draining it into his flagon. It doesn't quite fill it halfway.
"I hear they're all tall as the mountains. Three of them, terrible to behold. Frightening lot." That makes Savreen smile a bit wider.
"Terrible to behold. That's a new one."
"They're especially terrible to behold when they barge in on a man in the tavern and try to stop him drinkin' his ale with idle chatter," Oghren mutters, the sound muffled by the contents of his flagon.
"You've found me out."
"And what do you want, then? You haven't answered that question yet. I'd assume it's something with Branka. No one'd speak to me otherwise. No one speaks to me at all, except to tell me not to speak."
"Do you really think she's still alive?" For a moment, just a moment, a flicker of pain crosses Oghren's face. The emotion is well hidden, tucked away, but it is there, and then it is gone, covered up first by dissembling and then by the bottom of the flagon as he takes another long draught.
"I think there's a chance. I think she deserves to have someone look for her."
"And if we Wardens were to be looking for her?" Savreen watches Oghren's face as he looks at her, watches the interminable calculations and thoughts wheel behind his eyes. "What then?"
"This wouldn't happen to have anything to do with the rather interesting letter I received from Bhelen's man Gavorn, now, would it?" As he asks, Oghren brings the flagon to his mouth once more, but before he drinks, he adds, hurriedly: "Or would it rather have something to do with the way Harrowmont needs to make up for lost ground?"
"What was in your interesting letter?" With a shrug, Oghren sets down the now truly empty flagon.
"A lot of half-assed promises meant to make a few demands sound prettier. Didn't matter, of course—not to me, not if he really meant to find Branka. Which it sounded like he did." This isn't exactly what Savreen wants to hear, not when she knows they need Oghren. She frowns as he rummages in his pocket for some coin, which he slaps down on the table before belching loudly.
"So, you intend to work for Bhelen, then?" Despite feeling it keenly, she doesn't let her displeasure show on her face. They will need to think up something else, some other way of tracking Branka, of searching for her heading—but Oghren is not finished speaking. He shakes his head, waggling a finger at Savreen.
"Didn't say that, did I? I said I wanted to find Branka, not work for Bhelen." He stands, and he's wildly unsteady on his feet, but he remains upright at the very least. "And if Harrowmont has Wardens working for him, they'll be the ones with the best chance of finding her. With my help, of course."
"Does this mean you intend to accompany us to search for Branka?" It is rather amazing how quickly Savreen's displeasure has turned on its head, how quickly her previous confidence has returned. She finds herself thinking about how much she's missed this kind of negotiation, the simple discussion, the back and forth. If only leading their party were more like this all the time.
"Warden, if you really mean to look for Branka, I'd follow you all the way to the sodding surface."
"So these are the Grey Wardens?" An altogether unimpressed voice distracts Talvinder's focus on the map in front of her, provided by Harrowmont's men. She looks up with her mouth full of bread, up and over Alistair's slumped and dozing form, to see Savreen entering the inn's mostly deserted dining room with a familiar red-haired figure. Hurriedly, Tali kicks Alistair under the table, startling him awake and up off the table's surface. His hand hits his own empty plate and it clatters, but doesn't fall from the table. Tali wonders if it might be quieter if the plate were to break, but instead it spins on itself as Alistair fumbles over it.
"Yes! Who?" he sputters, blinking. "I was only resting my eyes." Swallowing, Tali rolls up the map and stands, trying to muster some sort of polite greeting.
"We are the Grey Wardens," she says, smiling, but the gesture is lopsided—there's still a few crumbs of dry lichen bread in her mouth that she can't seem to get down. The dwarf accompanying Sav rolls his eyes before looking around the room, searching for the innkeeper as Tali sits once more, thoroughly embarrassed.
"And I'm in need of a drink," is all he says by way of introduction, his voice gruff. It makes Tali frown, and she looks to Sav, who sighs before speaking.
"This is Oghren. He's agreed to help us search for Branka, rather than working with Bhelen's men." Already, Oghren has found the innkeeper, exchanged the necessary coin, and is holding two flagons of ale, one of which he finishes in a single long gulp. Alistair watches, askance, and Oghren sets the empty flagon down right in front of the innkeeper with a great belch.
"Do we need his help?" he asks, trying and failing to be quiet. Oghren scowls in Alistair's direction as he joins their group with his remaining drink.
"If you're looking for Branka, I'm the only one who knows what she was looking for, which might be pretty sodding helpful in finding her. So yes. You do need me, whelp." Tali notices Alistair wince, but Sav speaks before he can reply, clearly uninterested in an argument between him and Oghren.
"Harrowmont said she went looking for 'ancient secrets.' You know more?" With another, almost derisive, snort, Oghren turns from Alistair to Sav.
"Ancient secrets. That's a good way to put it. Aye, I know. Most people heard only that she was searching for some old technology—that's the way she wanted it. But I know that Branka was looking for the Anvil of the Void. A legend, maybe, but most legends have a funny knack for turning up true." Taking another moment to drink, Oghren leaves them in silence. Tali looks to Alistair first, then Sav, and both have an equally nonplussed expression on their faces. At least she can draw comfort in the fact that she isn't the only one not to know what this legend is.
"Anvil of the Void?" Sav prods, questioning Oghren when he lowers his flagon once more.
"You've never heard of it up topside?" The three of them shake their heads, and Oghren sighs as though exhausted by teaching a small child some simple task. "It was built by the smith Caridin. Earned him the title of paragon, too. Now, most of the specifics of the whole thing're lost to the Stone. But the memories of the Shaperate say that, with it, Orzammar had a hundred years of peace, on account of the stone soldiers forged on it. You can imagine how helpful new stone sentinels might be now, when the Darkspawn're nipping at our sodding heels."
"I can," Sav says, her voice grave. Tali can certainly imagine it too. While unfamiliar with the anvil itself, she has heard of the fabled army of stone soldiers that once protected Orzammar. The ability to make more, though, especially during the Blight, especially when it's a dwarven alliance that they seek, is more than just an intriguing prospect. She leans forward, and so does Alistair, his interest equally piqued. Oghren continues, growing more dramatic—he likes having people listening to him, that much is obvious.
"As far as anyone knows, the Anvil was built in the old Ortan Thaig. Branka planned to start looking there, if she could ever find it. All she, or anybody else, knew is that it was past Caridin's Cross. Nobody's seen Ortan Thaig for four hundred years, not since it fell during the last Blight. But that's where Branka'll be, I guarantee it, and that's where we need to get." He finishes on a triumphant note, smiling smugly over his flagon. Alistair, though, is not convinced.
"Rrright," he says, drawing out the word, his skepticism plain, even if that isn't his intention. "And do you have any idea how to do the getting there?" Once more, Oghren's reaction to Alistair is less than pleased. The scowl he shoots at the Warden this time could curdle milk, and Tali kicks Alistair under the table again, harder this time. She hears him breathe in sharply as her foot connects with his shin.
"I know Branka, you little nug-licking—"
"Alright, I think that this has been an excellent introduction," Savreen interjects, speaking over Oghren with enough force to instantly quiet him. He looks at her with a vaguely shocked expression, as though he's not sure why he's fallen silent himself. "But there is a great deal still to do to make sure that we are ready to leave for the Deep Roads before the day is out. Tali—did you find any food for Sher and Abarie in the market?"
She knew—she just knew—she had forgotten something.
"Uh—well—I'll go now and see! Alistair, can you please come with me?" As Tali speaks, she lurches to her feet once more, stepping around the table in one motion. "Sher and Abarie are asleep, right now, in the room, just so you know," she calls over her shoulder, already dragging Alistair out of the dining room. Once they're clear, she turns to him, whispering. "You could try not to make him want to kill you, you know."
It is little short of a miracle when they all stand in front of the gated and shuttered way to the Deep Roads. Three Wardens, two humans, one mage, one Qunari, one elf, one dwarf, and two mabari—they make for quite an interesting party, that's for sure. Savreen is simply thrilled to have made it this far, given the fragility of their alliance with Oghren, as well as Alistair's apparent knack for frustrating him. But she knows also that having made it this far will soon be nothing. Ahead of them lies the gnarled tangle of tunnels that make up the Deep Roads, the very home of the Darkspawn. It is into those tunnels they have promised to go, deep into the snaring maze in search of a woman who could well be dead.
Savreen does not want to think about that possibility. She does not want to think much at all, not as the guards glance at the papers stamped, sealed, and signed by Harrowmont. It is better not to think about the darkness of the tunnels, the heaviness of the stone, the hunger of the Darkspawn as the guards open gate after gate in the interlocking fortifications. It is difficult, though, when ahead of them, the road funnels into one single, dark pinpoint, endless and deep, a black well into which they must leap.
"Stone watch over you," the guards say, though they sound heavily skeptical of the idea that the Stone will be doing any watching in this particular situation. Savreen can hardly blame them. This is folly—Ranjit was right, is right. But they cannot turn around. They have no other choice; there is nothing else for them to do, and Savreen cannot fathom turning around—not now, not when they are so entrenched in this plan. And so she nods to the guards, shifts her grip on the lyrium lamp she holds, and starts down the tunnel, into the Deep Roads.
For a time, there is silence among them. No one speaks, and instead they are left only with the sounds of feet, crunching on stone; of armor, jingling against itself; of breath and of heartbeats, pounding, too loud. The blue light of their lanterns casts strange shadows across the walls of the tunnel, making them larger, grotesque, frightening. Savreen decides it is better not to look, and with one hand on the top of Sher's head to steady herself, she tries to shut her mind to the shapes that dance in the periphery of her vision. Meanwhile, Oghren leads them without a word, though he need not do much to navigate—not yet, at least, as they walk down one single, long tunnel, with no forks or branches. Alistair breaks the silence—as always, it would seem—with a rather tongue-in-cheek question.
"Is it always this…dark? In the Deep Roads?" Savreen tries not to be irritated. There is nothing inherently irritating about what Alistair has just asked, and besides, she can tell when a person is trying to cover up anxiety with words. But her patience is worn thin, and the best she can do is to not voice her irritation. She says nothing.
"Not always," Oghren answers gruffly. "Further in, the deep mushrooms'll light everything like lamps. Then there's the lava pools. Oh, and the old mirror systems."
"Then why's this tunnel so dark?"
"Don't you Wardens have special dark vision, or whatever? I thought you lot were supposed to be…exceptional." Up ahead, the darkness of the tunnel shifts slightly, from pitch black to a softer grey. From the map, it would appear that they are approaching the old central highway, where the tunnel from Orzammar widens out and connects to the rest of the system. Savreen focuses on the steps ahead as Oghren and Alistair continue speaking.
"We can see a little better at night, if that's what you mean, but it's not like we can see things when there's nothing to see. At night, you've got the moons, the stars—down here, it's lanterns or nothing."
"Sounds like someone's scared of the dark to me."
"I am not responding to that accusation."
"You've good as confirmed it, you sodding little—"
"Are those the mirrors you meant, Oghren?" Savreen asks as they spill from the tunnel into another, larger one, so massive in scale she finds it hard to believe they're still underground at all. Far, far overhead, a small crack of light streams down, down, down until it hits the tarnished and pitted surface of a huge mirror, which in turn reflects the light to another mirror, its surface cracked but still mostly whole. That mirror reflects the light on to yet another, and so on and so forth. There are plenty of mirrors that are broken, dimmed, slightly displaced in their angle, so the light is somewhat disrupted, but Savreen can easily imagine what it might have been like in the height of the dwarven empire: as bright as the sunlight above.
"Aye, that's them," is all Oghren says by way of acknowledgement. He's busy looking at Harrowmont's map more closely in the wash of light that floods over them, squinting thickly at the parchment.
"Well, it certainly is brighter." Savreen turns to Alistair, all the way toward the back of their little group, and he gives her a little smile and a shrug of his shoulders. She does not roll her eyes. It is an immense effort.
"This way," says Oghren after another moment, pointing brusquely in whatever he's divined to be the right direction. They cut across the highway, headed for a fork in its path. It is strange, to see such a huge place so empty, and Savreen cannot help but think about it, cannot help but feel so very small as they make their way down along the highway tunneled under the mountains. The road is wide enough that all nine of them, and the mabari, could walk abreast if they so chose, and still there would be room for two carriages to pass without danger. Up above, darkness partially shrouds the ceiling, which stretches up so far as to nearly disappear.
It is magnificent—or it would be, if not for the stench of dread that hangs over everything. That is the only way Savreen can describe it, and it grows stronger the longer they walk, the deeper into the roads they go. They pass signs of long past scuffles, and even some corpses, those of Darkspawn and their victims, torn to shreds by the small cave creatures that subsist on them—or something worse. They pass markers left by prior expeditions, though Oghren frowns at each one. Not Branka, not yet. They pass numerous forks, winding paths leading off into the darkness, and they continue forward.
Until they reach a great cave-in, rock and rubble spread across the entire highway, making the way forward impassable.
"Now what?" Tali asks, stepping forward to stare at a boulder twice her height that blocks the way. "I suppose we could try to go over, but I don't know that I want to risk it." Savreen holds out her hand to Oghren, wordlessly requesting the map, and he gives it up grudgingly, but not before he answers Tali's question.
"It's an old cave in, marked on the map. There's a diverted tunnel to the side, over this way." He jabs a thumb over his shoulder, and Tali follows the line of the gesture back toward the great stone walls. Savreen watches as her face shifts, failing to hide a grimace of displeasure.
"You mean that?" She, too, points as she asks the question. Savreen locates the tunnel in question on the map before looking—a winding, meandering thing, much smaller than the highway and more poorly charted. With a frown, she turns to look at the tunnel, and her heart and stomach both sink down, well past her feet and through the stone.
The tunnel in question seems more like a crack in the wall. Its edges are rough, the marks of chisels interspersed with what appear to be traces of clawed scratches and scrapes. There is no way of telling how large the tunnel is beyond the dark maw of its entrance, but Savreen must hazard a guess that it is not large enough for her liking.
"Is that…the only way forward?" Leliana, too, is not happy. Savreen may know her the least of their companions, but she knows that much. Oghren grunts, the sound frustrated and contemptuous, and grabs the map back from Savreen before striding toward the tunnel.
"For a group of Grey Wardens, you lot sure are sodding cowards," he says as he disappears into the dark hole, the tunnel almost instantly swallowing up the light of his lantern.
"For the love of—" Savreen is immensely unhappy as she rushes after Oghren, but it can't be helped. "They are not all Wardens, Oghren," she calls out behind him, focusing on her steps and very much not thinking about how close the walls are around her, how still the air is.
"Well they are all cowards, if you ask me. Do you want to find Branka or not?"
At least none of the others turn back, Savreen has to give them that.
Tali finds it strange that the tunnels should be so empty, the Deep Roads devoid of Darkspawn. By the time they make camp, hours later, she's seen no live Darkspawn—only their tracks, only their dead, only remnants of them. She can't even sense them, can't feel the whispering tremble in the back of her skull that heralds their distant presence, and yet she expects them around every corner. She can't decide if this is worse, worse than knowing they're there for sure. It sets her on edge as she pitches her tent in the little guardhouse they've found, a long disused remnant of the toll system of the old highway. At least the spiders they'd had to fight for it could be killed. Her anxiety, though, and the specter of her fear, are impossible to vanquish.
She spends a little too long fiddling with her tent, picking a sheltered spot mostly free of cobwebs and far enough from the door that she feels safe enough to consider sleeping. Abarie seems to pick up on her nerves, too, the mabari's ears twitching restlessly and her large head swinging from side to side at the smallest possible noise. But at least when the tent is up Abarie decides that it's safe enough to wiggle her way inside and curl up, and that makes Tali feel just a little better. Wringing her hands, she turns to join the others, all of whom sit around a practically ancient stone table, lit by a hanging orb of purple light, courtesy of Morrigan.
It is Morrigan who now speaks, her voice grave and uncharacteristically free of sarcasm, malice, or her usual snide tone. Instead, she sounds focused and intent, almost academic.
"They are either all gone to the surface, or amassing below, readying to head there. 'Tis most unlikely to my mind that the first option is true, given the nature of the army you faced at Ostagar. We have seen them aboveground, yes, but in the days after the battle they returned to tunnels beneath the battlefield." Shockingly, it's Alistair that responds, and it seems that they've been following this discussion for some time now, without rancor.
"Other Wardens spoke about breeding grounds—I'd have to assume that's where they'll all be, but where the grounds are and how to avoid them is a different matter entirely."
"There were no maps of these places?" Ranjit's question is a touch disdainful, hinting at his irritation and reminding Tali of his desire not to venture into the Deep Roads. But there is nothing for it now, so she does not grudge him the disdain. Alistair shrugs in response.
"I don't really know. Duncan may have had them, or one of the other Captains or Constables. I never saw them, and they're certainly lost now, wherever they were, if they ever existed." Ranjit snorts and crosses his arms, and Tali looks across the table to find Savreen, sitting there with her back ramrod straight and her eyes far away. There is something troubling her, as Tali knows there has been since the Brecilian Forest, but what Tali does not know is how to even begin to ask about it. Besides, to do so around the others would be to pry. Sav will tell her when she's ready, of that she's sure. She need only wait.
"So we're wandering blind in these tunnels." Oghren quickly shakes his head, his own irritation matching Ranjit's.
"No, we're not. You have me, remember?"
"There is also Harrowmont's map," Tali offers, pulling back a heavy stone chair in which to sit. It scrapes loudly across the floor, making her wince.
"Are you really so sure you can find trace of a woman who has been missing for two years now?" The skepticism in Ranjit's voice, though understandable, makes Oghren bristle even more. He leans forward in his own seat, slamming a fist down onto the table before speaking in a dangerously gruff voice, jabbing a finger in Ranjit's direction.
"That's my wife. If anyone's gonna find her, it's gonna be me, and don't you sodding forget it." But Ranjit doesn't back down. Maybe it's the claustrophobia of being underground, the tension of the Deep Roads, his frustration with not wanting to be there in the first place, but Tali can feel the argument brewing, fast and hot and bolstered by rage.
"If you're married, then why aren't you already out there, with her? Why didn't you leave with her in the first place?" Tali stares at Ranjit in shock, not at all sure how to reconcile this behavior with the Ranjit she knows. Her eyes flit to Sav, silently hoping that her cousin will step in, say something to calm him, anything, but Sav does nothing, says nothing. Instead, it's Oghren who responds, the pitch of his voice rising, nearer and nearer a shout.
"What do you want to hear, eh? You want me to say it out loud, you nug-licking arsehole? Fine! She left me! Ran off and took our entire sodding house on her mad quest for the anvil. You happy now?" His voice rings and echoes in the sudden silence, bouncing off the stone walls. Ranjit lowers his eyes, averts his gaze, and furrows his brow before clearing his throat. There's shame in his voice when next he speaks.
"You have my apologies, ser. I did not—it was ill done of me."
"Sodding right. You owe me more than an apology. You'll be buying my ale for a week when this is over. And don't talk to me again, you hear me?" With that, Oghren shoves back his chair and storms angrily away to his own tent. No one speaks—no one knows what to say, it would seem, least of all Ranjit. Eventually, though, he sighs.
"I shall take first watch," he says, and it's as much an offer as it is a request to be left alone.
"I'll take second," Alistair says, and then Sten claims third, and that's that, and they all retire. Still, though, the anger and the unease hang over everything.
Tali knows it will be a long night.