It was an expensive box of chocolates — or so he was told. Some Orlesian noble or other had read Celene and Gaspard's official reports mentioning him and had hoped to trade sweets for stories. Felassan had taken the sweets, and he'd given stories; whether they were the stories that noble wanted was another matter.
He was picking through the box now. A full quarter at least sat on a doily "borrowed" from the ambassador right next to Bianca. An offering of thanks for the lady who'd so often preserved their lives. "Who told you your first stories?" He looked up from his sorting long enough to make eye contact, just so Varric would know he was addressing him and not the crossbow.
It's not a picturesque table; rather, it's cluttered with things from both of them, but it is becoming more so. Varric had some sense to move books and papers aside, clearing space for the man who offered story and sweet, two things that could not be turned down with ease. So, a doily ends on the table, Bianca aside, papers littering the floor, and now, the chocolates piling higher, more and more by the moment. Flatware and cups are pulled from a drawer, placed on the table, framing the moment.
Two are pulled from the pile, turned over twice before landing one of the plates, as one hand pulls a tankard close. "It's something you pick up here and there." Lying for comfort, that is never stated, is always skirted around as the bottle is uncorked, and he fills Felessan's tankard first. Manners sometimes mattered after all, not always, but in diversion and divestment, it matters, so the cup is slid over the table. Hand spinning the mug and pushing it forward as part of him fights the urge to take a swig from the open bottle, but instead he fills his cup, reasonably and meets Felessan's eyes. "Mix of people, didn't exactly grow up in a quiet house." It's not a lie, not the truth, some halfway truth. The bottle is corked, something stolen, picked clean off someone unsuspecting, someone who would nag at him later for it.
He's made statements about being the black sheep of the family, ripping against the standard preset and navigating a between, nothing really his and a boy trying to make something of it. "Dwarves tell lots of stories, too many sometimes." It's rich words coming from him, "Plus Kirkwall, Hightown still had its share of shit going on in the early aughts, unrest between two major families that caused two deaths, the Chantry, things just being Kirkwall, you end up hearing things." And running your mouth as a kid, but that's quelled by metal against his lips, a splash of whiskey to wash that down.
"But, you surely don't want to hear about the drama of Kirkwall in the early years of this age; how'd you get these? This is the good stuff from Val Chevin..." A flimsy pivot, but one the same.
