Dragon Age One Shots

One More Time-Varric

Before the events of Veilguard, Varric stumbles into a bar in Tevinter and comes upon an old friend he's been waiting for.

Even in the Imperium's glittering and terrifying capitol something in Varric's blood drove him to the grubbiest bar in the city. This place was no Hanged Man, for starters, there was only one drunk trying to vomit out of a closed window, but it'd have to do.

Ignoring the creaking in his legs that went from an occasional twinge to a constant groan, Varric sidled up to the bar that eclipsed his head by a few inches. They didn't get a lot of dwarves in here, apparently. "My good barkeep," he called out while climbing up the stool in as dignified a way as possible.

The second his ass hit the cushion, the whole thing lit up like a Satinalia party in Val Royeaux. Even in a hole in the wall, Tevinter couldn't stop being Tevinter. A man with a haze over his eyes that told Varric more tales than he was in the mood for glanced his way.

"Two of your... Damn it, what was it Sparklers was always going on about? Just give me two of whatever will get you drunk but not to the point a Magister nicks your liver in an alley."

For a brief flicker, the dull sheen sharpened, but as the bartender's hands fell into the familiar routine, it rolled back in. It reminded Varric too much of the Gallows, a place he refused to step foot in even as Viscount. That's what Bran was for, anyway.

I'm gonna miss him. Sure, he was skimming off the top and playing favorites among the nobles and carta, but that kind of political backstabbing is a Kirkwall kiss. At least it's not old elven gods trying to destroy the world. Again.

"Here." Two glasses landed in front of Varric filled with distressingly clear liquid. Varric slid one to the empty stool beside him, then inspected his. His mother always said only a fool trusts a drink you can see through, but he didn't have the time or coin to be picky.

Scrunching his face in anticipation, Varric threw back the drink. "Andraste's tits!" he cried out. "Don't you water this down?"

"Of course not."

"Sparklers, you have my respect. One more." Varric handed over his glass, his mind aching for oblivion even if his liver, stomach, and head were in disagreement. As he watched the glass fill from a bottle that might have once held a soul, he asked, "Any chance you've seen an elf around here? About yay big, head like an egg, with a wolf fetish?"

The chatterjay barkeep pushed the glass back with a grunted, "No."

"I miss Corff," Varric moaned, hating that he felt every year spent on this quest. "And Edwina." Home was a distant speck on the horizon, unless it was on fire, which there was a good twenty percent chance of that happening without him there. With him home, it went up to thirty-five.
Kirkwall...

To think things were easier when it was just the mages and templars going at it, the Carta trying to gut anyone who stumbled upon their business, and the roving gangs just keeping life interesting. Varric's fingers ran over the supple wood of his crossbow as he settled into his glowing stool.

"We're in it now, Bianca."

"Varric!"

His dour frown instantly ticked up at the cataclysm blowing into the bar. Hawke moved with the grace of a wyvern...missing two of its legs. Not that it slowed the man down for a second as he dodged people in mysterious cloaks no doubt off to assassinate someone important.

"You made it," Hawke bellowed.

"Against my better judgment."

His great laugh shook the whole bar. "Since when do you have a better judgment?"