Fenris has long since been spoiled by the exquisite vintage of wines in his stolen basement. He stares into his own cup now as though it had somehow debased his mother and insulted the shape of his toes in one go. Rude, that.

"I have my doubts," he grouses, "though I will have to take your word on the quality of nug piss." Hell, keeping in mind some of the taverns Fenris has visited, he probably has his own experiences with it that he doesn't actually know about. Never mind that, though, he settles on one of the stools next to Varric. "What are you doing here, dwarf?"

Fenris is significantly less comfortable in this place, but Fenris is never comfortable anywhere, more than half of which is his own stubborn doing. Still... at least it's not Kirkwall.