The Morning Decision

The first rays of light filtered through the cracks in the stone walls, casting long shadows across the room. Duran stood by the table, reviewing one of Harrowmont's maps for what felt like the hundredth time. The night's conversations still lingered in his mind, but now, the time for action had come.

The sound of approaching footsteps echoed outside the door. Gorim, already awake and halfway through fastening his armor, glanced up. "They're here," he said simply.

Adela stretched, pulling on her leather armor with a sharp exhale. "Let's see what the morning brings," she murmured, her voice still tinged with sleep.

The door opened to reveal Lord Harrowmont, his second—a sharp-eyed dwarf with a no-nonsense demeanor—and Nerav Helmi. Harrowmont's expression was calm but curious, as though he were bracing himself for what he was about to hear.

"My lord," Nerav greeted Duran warmly, her smile steady but cautious. "I hope the night has offered you clarity."

"It has," Duran replied, his voice steady. He gestured for them to join him at the table. "I've made my decision."

Harrowmont nodded, taking a seat. "And what have you decided, my prince?"

Duran straightened, meeting the older dwarf's gaze. "I won't take the throne, Harrowmont."

The words hung in the air for a moment, their weight settling over the room. Harrowmont's second frowned, but Harrowmont himself remained impassive, waiting for Duran to continue.

"My duty lies with the Grey Wardens," Duran explained. "The Blight threatens more than just Orzammar—it threatens the entire world. If I take the throne, I tether myself here and leave the Blight unchecked. That's a risk I can't take. The Stone has given me another path, one I must follow."

Harrowmont's brow furrowed as he considered the words. For a moment, he seemed lost in thought, the weight of his responsibility etched into his lined face. Finally, he exhaled deeply and nodded.

"You speak with the wisdom of a true ruler," he said quietly. "I cannot fault you for this choice. Your duty as a Grey Warden is greater than any crown. And it takes no small amount of courage to put the needs of the world above your own."

Duran inclined his head in gratitude. "Thank you, my lord. But that doesn't mean I won't fight for Orzammar. Behlen must be stopped, and your claim to the throne must be secured. That's why I want to hear your plan."

Harrowmont's expression brightened slightly at the change in tone. He motioned for his second, who unfurled a large map of the Deep Roads.

"My plan is a gamble," Harrowmont admitted, his voice low. "But it may be our only chance to end the Assembly's deadlock. If we had a Paragon's voice—a true representative of the Ancestors—the Assembly would have no choice but to follow their decree. And there's only one Paragon whose voice could matter now."

"Branka," Gorim murmured, his tone thoughtful.

Harrowmont nodded. "Months ago, Branka led an expedition into the Deep Roads. She was searching for something… something ancient and powerful. She disappeared without a trace, and no one has dared to search for her since. But if she could be found—if she could be brought back—her authority would settle the question of the throne once and for all."

Duran frowned, his eyes scanning the map. "The Deep Roads are vast. Finding Branka could take months—years even. And that's assuming she's still alive."

"That's why you're our best chance," Harrowmont replied, his tone firm. "The Grey Wardens have a gift. You can sense the Darkspawn. If anyone can navigate the Deep Roads, it's you."

Adela stepped forward, her hand resting on the hilt of her blade. "It's a risk," she said, her voice steady. "But it's one worth taking. We've faced worse odds before, Duran."

Duran glanced at her, then at Gorim, who gave a solemn nod.

Harrowmont leaned forward. "If we succeed, we can end Behlen's schemes for good. But you won't have to start this search blind. There's someone who might know where Branka went."

Nerav spoke up, her voice thoughtful. "Her husband, Oghren. He was furious when she left and drank himself into ruin after her disappearance. He's usually drowning his sorrows in Tapster's Tavern. If anyone knows where Branka might have gone, it's him."

Gorim chuckled softly. "Oghren? Ancestors, I haven't seen him in years. He was always a wild one, even before he took up with Branka. If anyone can survive the Deep Roads, it's him. That is, if you can get him sober enough to talk."

Adela raised an eyebrow. "And if he doesn't want to help?"

Gorim grinned. "Oh, he'll help. Oghren's not the type to shy away from a challenge—especially if it means putting Behlen in his place."

Duran straightened, his decision made. "Then it's settled. We'll speak to Oghren and find out what he knows. If he can lead us to Branka, we'll find her—and we'll bring her back."

Harrowmont rose, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. "The Stone guide you, Duran. If anyone can succeed in this, it's you."

Nerav stepped closer, her expression both proud and worried. "Take care of yourself, Duran. The Deep Roads are no place for mercy."

Duran nodded. "Mercy won't save Orzammar. But with luck, and the Stone's blessing, we'll find what we need."

Tapster's Tavern: A Boisterous Introduction

The heavy oak doors of Tapster's Tavern swung open with a creak, and the group was immediately hit with the smell of spilled ale, sweat, and the unmistakable tang of unwashed dwarves. Inside, the air was thick with laughter, drunken shouts, and the occasional clatter of a falling mug.

Gorim stepped in first, his gaze sweeping the chaotic room with a mix of amusement and nostalgia. "Ah, Tapster's. A den of bad decisions and worse ale," he muttered with a grin.

"Perfect," Adela said dryly, sidestepping a stumbling patron. "Just the kind of place I wanted to start my morning."

Duran followed, his eyes scanning the tavern. "And where's this Oghren?" he asked.

Gorim smirked, pointing toward the far end of the bar. "There."

At the counter sat a dwarf who looked like he'd wrestled a dragon and then drank enough to forget the fight. His red hair jutted out wildly in every direction, and his beard—an untamed, wiry mass—was streaked with ale. He clutched a massive tankard in one hand, waving it at the barkeep while yelling, "More! Don't make me come back there and drink it straight from the barrel!"

"That's Oghren," Gorim said, shaking his head. "As charming as ever."

The three of them approached, weaving through the crowd until Gorim stopped just behind the red-haired dwarf. "Oghren!" Gorim called out, his voice cutting through the noise.

Oghren froze mid-swig and turned, his bloodshot eyes narrowing. For a moment, he simply stared, his lips twisting into a confused grimace. Then recognition dawned, and his face split into a wild grin.

"Well, strip me naked and call me a nug-licker! Gorim Saelac, you hairy sack of rocks!" Oghren bellowed, his voice booming loud enough to make nearby patrons flinch. He slammed his tankard onto the bar with enough force to slosh ale everywhere and grabbed Gorim in a crushing embrace.

"I thought you were dead! Or married. Same thing, really!" Oghren roared, releasing Gorim with a hearty slap on the back.

Gorim laughed, shaking his head. "Still alive. And still cleaning up after nobles, it seems." He motioned to Duran and Adela. "Speaking of which, I've brought company."

Oghren turned, his wild eyes raking over Duran. "Who's this? Wait, let me guess. Some fancy noble with a stick so far up his arse it's practically a family crest?"

Duran arched a brow, his lips quirking into a smirk. "Duran Aeducan, Grey Warden."

Oghren's jaw dropped theatrically. "Aeducan? A Grey Warden? By the Stone, the Deep Roads must be short on recruits if they're letting pretty boys like you join."

Duran's smirk widened. "And you must be Oghren. Gorim's told me all about you. Mostly how you can't hold your ale."

Oghren let out a booming laugh, slapping his thigh. "Oh, I like this one, Gorim. Got some fight in him!"

Then his gaze slid to Adela, and his grin turned downright feral. "And who's this tall drink of surface water? Come to join the merry band of misfits, sweetheart?"

Adela crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing. "Adela," she said coolly. "And if you call me sweetheart again, you'll find out what it's like to drink ale through your nose."

Oghren threw his head back and laughed so loudly that several nearby patrons turned to stare. "Fiery! I like her! She'll fit right in with us lunatics."

"Behave, Oghren," Gorim warned, though he was grinning.

Oghren waved him off. "Fine, fine. I'll be good. Mostly. Now, what in the Deep Roads are you lot doing here? Come to enjoy the ambiance?"

Duran stepped forward, his tone growing serious. "We need your help, Oghren. It's about Branka."

The laughter drained from Oghren's face in an instant. His tankard lowered, and his wild grin turned into a scowl. "Branka," he said flatly, his voice suddenly much quieter. "What about her?"

"We're looking for her," Gorim said. "Harrowmont believes she's the key to settling the Assembly's deadlock."

Oghren stared at them for a long moment, his eyes hard. Then he let out a bitter snort, slumping back against the bar. "Of course he does. Everyone's always looking to Branka to fix their messes. But she's gone. You hear me? Gone. The Deep Roads swallowed her whole, just like they do everyone else."

"Maybe not," Duran pressed. "You were her husband, Oghren. If anyone knows where she was headed, it's you."

For a moment, Oghren didn't respond. Then he grabbed his tankard and drained it in one long gulp before slamming it back onto the bar. "Fine. You want to know? She was chasing some crazy legend. The Anvil of the Void. Took her whole house down into the Dead Trenches looking for it. I told her she was mad, but Branka never listened to anyone. Not even me."

Adela tilted her head. "The Anvil of the Void? What's that?"

Oghren let out a humorless laugh. "Some ancient smithing tool. Supposedly made weapons so strong they could turn a Darkspawn's skull into gravel with a single swing. Branka thought it would save Orzammar. I thought it would get her killed."

Duran's expression hardened. "If there's even a chance she's alive, we have to find her."

Oghren shook his head, but a faint grin tugged at his lips. "You're serious about this, aren't you? Well, Stone take me, I must be drunker than I thought, because I'm actually considering joining you idiots."

"We could use your help," Gorim said. "You know Branka better than anyone, and you know the Deep Roads."

Oghren grunted, scratching his beard. "Fine. I'll come. Someone's gotta keep you from getting eaten alive down there."

Adela smirked. "As long as you don't slow us down."

Oghren's grin returned in full force. "Sweetheart, I'll show you slow when I'm carrying you out of the Deep Roads after you twist your pretty little ankle."

Adela's hand shot to her dagger, but Duran raised a calming hand. "Save it for the Darkspawn," he said, fighting back a grin.

Oghren grabbed another tankard from the bar, raising it high. "To Branka, and to our poor, stupid souls! The Deep Roads won't know what hit 'em!"