Oghren

As the dwarf in front of him clattered to the ground, Oghren let the red haze dissipate from his vision. He vaguely realized he wasn't supposed to kill him, that the dwarf in front of him was merely supposed to be bleeding and grovelling. Sod that. When you give a warrior a weapon, when you challenge them to a fight, when you load them full of liquor and battle lust, you don't stop at a scratch.

There were jeers and yells of outrage from the crowd, but he was getting used to that. He was getting used to the verbal blows, the looks, the pity intermingled with disgust. What kind of husband would be abandoned by the Paragon who took his whole house?

The kind who wasn't going to sodding give up looking for her, even if all of Orzammar did. She left him behind for a reason. He was sure of it. He would bring her and her Anvil back, and he wouldn't do it by stopping at a scratch.

He barely even noticed when they stripped his axe away, when they told him he couldn't ever bare it inside the city again. He didn't notice when they struck him from his house. He didn't even feel it when they spat in his face.

He would find Branka, that dew-licking nug-humper, and then everything would be all right again.