o. Your Turn Varric has some suspicions about what the hell is going on, but most of them amount to something approximating, same bugnuts shit as the last time. He doesn't know a damn thing about magic or deities or any of this crap— aside from the basics, of course.
It wasn't that much different from a bad night in Lowtown, really: Don't agree to anything, don't follow anybody down a dark alley, make yourself obvious if you want to be found, and most importantly: everybody needs a friend. What he does know is, he's in a tavern, among strangers, and lost.
Varric can handle a tavern.
i. The Dragon Story "...So there I was, up my armpits in creekwater, stomping through this miserable little backwater Gully. Ferelden, I tell you, great country, but they love their wet boots," Varric was seated at a low board table, well-suited for dwarves, leaning forward to gesture illustratively with his broad, scarred hands for his eager audience, "I'm just glad to get out of the place, but the minute the ravine opens up, what do I see? A dragon."
He slaps his knee; this is quite a turn, you see.
"Now, it was just a little one, and the Inquisitor, when she points that out, I had to laugh. That's how she was, always looking on the bright side. Of course, that's the thing about dragons: whenever you see just one, you know there's always more..."
ii. The Assassin Story "...And that was the third time that day, I shit you not. Three! Three assassination squads, and for what? We hadn't even made it big yet, back then. Even Carver was pissed, and back then he hadn't learned better than to make a bad day worse...Of course, you know Hawke, he just stands up out of the rubble and laughs right at him. That was just like him; you send somebody around to gut the man, and he'll have a joke for every stabbing," Varric concludes, reaching for his drink— he hesitates then, and amends, "...Or, well, attempted stabbing."
And it was a good long, drink to whet down his throat. This was thirsty work after all. Maker, what he wouldn't do to have Hawke here, now— either of them. This kind of insanity needed a joke or three to make it palatable.
"Right, where was I? Oh yeah. So, Hawke was about to be down a kidney or two..."
iii. The Bar Story "...I'm sitting there thinking, damn, I'm getting too old for this. Lucky me, I'd found myself a protege. So I give her the signal and Rook just kicks the door down. You ever see an elf kick a door down? Classic move, but it's hard to pull off— thanks," Varric tips his head in the direction of the person refilling his drink, and the spreads his hands wide, indicating the breadth of the table in front of them as if it were the map of a battleground, "See now, if it was me, I'd try a little diplomacy, grease some palms, but not Rook. Next thing I know, she's going at 'em like a wildcat, craziest shit you ever saw. I'm telling you, this beatdown was beautiful, it was like art, and I've known a few brawls in my time."
Shotglass after empty shotglass meets with their fate, rolling thither and yon in the wake of Varric's mime-act. If the real fight had been even half as dramatic, it really would have been something to see.
"And after the dust clears, you know what she says to me? Well..."
iv. Open/Wildcard Drink spent and stories told, Varric reclines with the front two feet of his chair and the only too feet of his body propped up in an improbable balance. It'd been a long fucking day even before showing up here, and he's been here for hours, waiting to see a friendly face.
But hey, what's the rush?
Tavern food isn't good, but it's plenty. The drinks are fine too. And it's not as if he has anywhere else to go, under the circumstances. Hell of a thing, this mess. And maybe you're in it too?
Varric Tethras | Dragon Age | Open to All
Varric has some suspicions about what the hell is going on, but most of them amount to something approximating, same bugnuts shit as the last time. He doesn't know a damn thing about magic or deities or any of this crap— aside from the basics, of course.
It wasn't that much different from a bad night in Lowtown, really: Don't agree to anything, don't follow anybody down a dark alley, make yourself obvious if you want to be found, and most importantly: everybody needs a friend. What he does know is, he's in a tavern, among strangers, and lost.
Varric can handle a tavern.
i. The Dragon Story
"...So there I was, up my armpits in creekwater, stomping through this miserable little backwater Gully. Ferelden, I tell you, great country, but they love their wet boots," Varric was seated at a low board table, well-suited for dwarves, leaning forward to gesture illustratively with his broad, scarred hands for his eager audience, "I'm just glad to get out of the place, but the minute the ravine opens up, what do I see? A dragon."
He slaps his knee; this is quite a turn, you see.
"Now, it was just a little one, and the Inquisitor, when she points that out, I had to laugh. That's how she was, always looking on the bright side. Of course, that's the thing about dragons: whenever you see just one, you know there's always more..."
ii. The Assassin Story
"...And that was the third time that day, I shit you not. Three! Three assassination squads, and for what? We hadn't even made it big yet, back then. Even Carver was pissed, and back then he hadn't learned better than to make a bad day worse...Of course, you know Hawke, he just stands up out of the rubble and laughs right at him. That was just like him; you send somebody around to gut the man, and he'll have a joke for every stabbing," Varric concludes, reaching for his drink— he hesitates then, and amends, "...Or, well, attempted stabbing."
And it was a good long, drink to whet down his throat. This was thirsty work after all. Maker, what he wouldn't do to have Hawke here, now— either of them. This kind of insanity needed a joke or three to make it palatable.
"Right, where was I? Oh yeah. So, Hawke was about to be down a kidney or two..."
iii. The Bar Story
"...I'm sitting there thinking, damn, I'm getting too old for this. Lucky me, I'd found myself a protege. So I give her the signal and Rook just kicks the door down. You ever see an elf kick a door down? Classic move, but it's hard to pull off— thanks," Varric tips his head in the direction of the person refilling his drink, and the spreads his hands wide, indicating the breadth of the table in front of them as if it were the map of a battleground, "See now, if it was me, I'd try a little diplomacy, grease some palms, but not Rook. Next thing I know, she's going at 'em like a wildcat, craziest shit you ever saw. I'm telling you, this beatdown was beautiful, it was like art, and I've known a few brawls in my time."
Shotglass after empty shotglass meets with their fate, rolling thither and yon in the wake of Varric's mime-act. If the real fight had been even half as dramatic, it really would have been something to see.
"And after the dust clears, you know what she says to me? Well..."
iv. Open/Wildcard
Drink spent and stories told, Varric reclines with the front two feet of his chair and the only too feet of his body propped up in an improbable balance. It'd been a long fucking day even before showing up here, and he's been here for hours, waiting to see a friendly face.
But hey, what's the rush?
Tavern food isn't good, but it's plenty. The drinks are fine too. And it's not as if he has anywhere else to go, under the circumstances. Hell of a thing, this mess. And maybe you're in it too?