"So the boss wants you boys trained as Bezerkers, eh?" The dwarf leaned heavy on his axe, blinking up at the two larger men with a widening grin.
"Pashaara. You are drunk."
"I see no point to this. What is there to be learned from a warrior who can barely keep his feet?"
Even the templar chuckled at this, stiffling it against the back of his glove.
"Bezerkin'... Bezerkin' s'all about harnessin' your rage."
"The Beresaad are trained to control their emotions."
"Oh? I hear there's a farmer and his brood who'd say different. Were they still able to say, that is."
The Quanari subsided with a rumbling growl, but the dwarf had already turned to Alistair. "And what about you, boy?"
"That Templar trainin's all well and good, with your magics and your fancy skirts--"
"--It's a robe... battle robe... thing..."
"But you gotta tap into somethin' deeper, somethin' harder, somethin' resilient."
"The boy has lost his home, his clan, stood by while they were slaughtered. He faces an impossible task. He is king, they say, and yet he will not lead. He is spineless and prone to weeping when he thinks others do not see. He is--"
Sten almost smirked, something twitching behind his brow. "I am merely trying to be helpful."
"Yes, well..." Alistair's eyes strayed then, roaming across the camp to where his fellow Warden was undergoing training of her own. Already she had shed much of her armor, her skin glowing slick beneath the firelight. She spun then, blade flashing round, but the elf caught her arm easily, slipping behind her to lay a hand on her waist.
Following the boy's reddening gaze, Oghren grinned. "Aye, that'll do it."