Courtesans - English version

30 The Maker

It was late at night, and Zevran wandered up with the same expressionless face he'd worn throughout his time at the inn. He hadn't said much then either, mostly just sipping on his white wine. He wasn't drunk, but it was enough to make him feel a little more open-hearted, a little more open-souled, and no matter how much he resisted, his mind was flooded with thoughts.

Eventually, he grew tired of brooding and left the tavern's main room. Stumbling up the stairs, his gaze downcast, he noticed two oil lamps burning softly on the walls. In their dull light, he spotted a figure lying face down at the end of the corridor. The shape was all too familiar, the body looking alarmingly lifeless. Zevran, his brow furrowing, moved closer and recognised the figure by the red hair and stocky build.

"Oghren? Is that you?" He knelt beside him, grabbing his shoulder and flipping him onto his back. The dwarf, in response, kindly displayed the dried drool at the corner of his mouth.

"You drunken, foolish oaf! How long have you been sleeping here?" Zevran leaned over him but immediately turned his head away from the alcoholic stench wafting from Oghren's mouth. "Ugh, mate, you smell worse than a barrel of rotgut!" He slapped the dwarf's stubbly cheek. "Hey! Wake up!"

Nothing. Oghren's head lolled lifelessly to the side.

"Come on! At least tell me you're alive, yeah, buddy? Hey!" Zevran gave him a slightly stronger slap, then shook his shoulder. Oghren emitted an unintelligible, guttural sound.

"Finally. So you haven't drunk yourself to death. Can you get up?"

The grunting stopped.

"Oghren?"

Silence.

Zevran straightened up and nudged the dwarf's side with his foot. "Oghren!"

But the dwarf didn't stir.

Annoyed, Zevran stepped behind him, clasped his arms under Oghren's armpits, and tried to lift him, though the dwarf's legs refused to cooperate. "Oh, you miserable ox! You damn boozehound! Couldn't you have managed a few more steps to your bed?"

When Oghren's feet refused to find the ground for the umpteenth time, Zevran resigned himself to dragging the dwarf down the hallway.

"Just tell me one thing, my friend!" he grumbled as he hauled the dwarf along. "Why is it always me picking you up, eh? Why not Morrighan? Why not Alistair? Why me? Last time I was the lucky winner too! You only pass out when you know I'm coming, don't you?"

Oghren neither confirmed nor denied the accusation.

At last, standing before Oghren's door, Zevran let the dwarf go, his head thudding against the floor. "So? Where's your key? Huh?" He peeked into Oghren's coat, but it was empty. He cast a quick glance at his trousers.

"No! You can't expect me to—!" Zevran shook his head, but then... "But don't you dare tell anyone I rummaged in your trousers!" he warned, leaning threateningly over Oghren's sweaty forehead. He found the key, unlocked the door, and grabbed the dwarf by one ankle, dragging him over the threshold. Oghren's head collided with the doorframe, but Zevran couldn't be bothered with such minor injuries.

"For the love of all things, you're a dwarf! How can you be so bloody heavy? And what is that smell in here? It's not just the booze, my friend! We only just got this room, and already it reeks like a wild animal lives here? What the hell is this? Are you drinking out of the wash basin too?"

Zevran finally heaved Oghren onto the bed, throwing him face-first onto the mattress. The dwarf's body bounced helplessly on the springs, his face turning toward the moonlight.