A/N: So this piece spawned out of a typo. In a story, I typed Barspawn instead of Barkspawn, and in an ensuing conversation, RogueHunter06 pointed out to me how cool it'd be to have a bar spawn in the middle of the Deep Roads. Thus, the seed for this crackfic was planted.

Disclaimer:- Dragon Age and The Elder Scrolls are owned by BioWare and Bethesda respectively. I just own the characters featured in this piece. I am a poor man, you see.

"Sing us a song you're the piano Shriek, sing us a song tonight-"

Harry the Hurlock shook his head and sighed. It wasn't like he was opposed to music, no. He'd just had a rather long day and wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep. Which he would be able to do in about ten more blighted minutes.

"I shay they rooned me, Harry... rooned me, I shay! Shtaruhddat blashted dee-ell-shee and now outta work! Itsh a dish-graysh I shay!"

Till then, he'd have to listen to this shit.

"Jacques, how many have you had?"

"Not enough, Harry," Jacques slurred and slid out of barstool and went face first into the floor. "Or not."

Smacking his forehead, Harry slowly made his way out from behind the bar and grabbed Jacque by the elbow, helping him stumble to his feet.

"You okay?"

"Jush fine, Harry. Jushhh... why are there three of yous?"

Harry sighed. "You alright to walk home?"

"I wuzza Van... guard in the dee-ell-shee, you know? I'll be... I'll be fine. Jussshh... point me to the door and I'll... I'll... be fine."

"Yeah, yeah."

It was true, too. Jacques had been the one to play the role of the Hurlock Vanguard in the Darkspawn Chronicles DLC, which had been a smash hit among the player base, as far as Harry knew. And now he was unemployed. Bad days fall upon the best of us.

"Goodnight, Jacques."

"G'night, Harry."

Harry watched the former vanguard shuffle off homeward until he disappeared around a bend. "Think he'll be okay?"

Oggy the Ogre, who stood beside the door with his hands behind his back, hiked his shoulders. "I would say yes, but my calculations cannot account for that."

"Yeah? What's the probability?"

A pause. "One out of five chance of him getting home. Four out of five chance of landing face first in a gutter. And staying there."

Sighing for the umpteenth time that day, Harry turned and observed the goings on of the bar from the outside.

The Dragon's Piss Pub wasn't the largest or the most fashionable of its kind. Neither was it the only one in the Deep Roads. But it was the first. Harry had inherited it quite by chance after winning a four way deathmatch for the position. Local competition came from one of three other taverns in the area: The Unquiet Penguin Tavern (For ye should rightly fear The Silence of the Penguin), The Necromancer's Saloon (The drinks here, they really infuse you with life) and The Travelling Harlot (When you just don't care anymore).

The Dragon's Piss Pub didn't have a tagline – mostly because the writer, who was on the verge of creative bankruptcy, couldn't come up with one for them – but they did have a few loyal patrons, who kept the establishment afloat. 'Twas something to be proud of, that.

Looking back inside, Harry sighed again. The bar was empty – Jacques had been the last customer – and even Shaggy the Shriek had stopped his singing. Gary the Genlock was currently wiping away at the first of the three tables the tavern had, which were placed opposite the piano.

"You wanna come inside for a drink, Oggy?" Harry asked the Ogre. "Or do you have to go home?"

"Nah. I'm in no hurry," Oggy replied with a shake of his head. "Though I shan't drink much, I wouldn't be opposed to the company."

"C'mon in then. And flip the sign to Closed after you, alright?"

"Will do."

Rubbing the back of his head, Harry made his way to one of the circular tables and pulled out a chair, sitting across from Shaggy who was dumping a tankard of ale down his throat.

"Sure, drink all the feckin ale. Like yer feckin momma pays for all the feckin booze in this feckin pub," Gary the Genlock muttered, bringing three more tankards to the table. "Feckin Shrieks. Pointy eared sunsa bitches in life, pointy eared sunsa bitches in Blighted life too. Tells ya all ya need to know about them feckin elves. Bah!"

Unfazed, Shaggy burped. "You really ought to expand your vocabulary of swear words. They're starting to stale, in my opinion."

Shaggy and Gary took the classic elven-dwarven rivalry quite seriously.

"The probability of that happening is very low indeed," Oggy added as he joined the others at the table after lifting Gary and plopping him down onto a chair. "Gary likes his curses too much to change them. At least, that's what my calculations say."

"Nobody gives a feckin nughumper's arse 'bout yer opinion or yer calculations," Gary responded gruffly and slid the tankards across the wooden surface towards Harry and Oggy, keeping one for himself. "Feckin fart nuggets think they know it all. Bah!"

By now, Shaggy the Shriek was amused. "Are you still raging over the fact that you have to visit your mother over the holidays?"

"...go feck yerself."

Shaking his head, Harry took a swig from his tankard. To celebrate the one year anniversary of the release of Inquisition, the third game of the series, a three day holiday had been announced. Most Darkspawn establishments would remain closed for the occasion.

"According to my calculations, Gary really shouldn't be worried about going home," Oggy said. "The percentage of his broodmother recognising him is 0.00218%."

"Stop picking on Gary, you two," Harry finally intervened, sensing the Genlock's rising temper. "That goes for all of us Darkspawn, though. Blame it on the lore, if you have to. Better yet, blame the people who wrote the lore."

"Yes, but since Darkspawn are the neighbours of the dwarves in the Deep Roads, the number of dwarven broodmothers is the most," Oggy said calmly. "It only stands to reason that there would be more Genlocks than any other kind of Darkspawn, and thus the percentage of a broodmother recognising her spawn is so low."

"Makes sense," Shaggy said with a nod, having finished up his tankard of ale.

"Yeah? Well, we'll see how feckin happy you two are when you go visit yer own feckin family."

Oggy busied himself with his drink while Shaggy looked up at the ceiling and started whistling a tune.

Harry smiled and took another measured sip. Life at the Dragon's Piss Pub was always this lively. Made life interesting, and sometimes, tiring.

"Still don't get what's so feckin special that they have to declare a holiday for Inquisition day," Gary continued, voicing his thoughts. "The Origins anniversary holiday I'm feckin supportive of, but the other two games didn't really use us Darkspawn much. Doesn't make any feckin sense for us to close up shop."

"Well, at least the employment rate went up," Shaggy pointed out. "Maybe that's why."

Harry nodded. "True. It really plummeted after the second game. No wonder so many Hurlocks and Shrieks went over for employment at Skyrim that year."

"Playing the roles of Falmer and Chaurus respectively, you mean?" Oggy asked.

"Yeap."

"The both of you went, right?" Gary asked, leading Harry and Shaggy to nod. "Why'd they not feckin hire us Genlocks?"

"Dwarves are extinct in Tamriel, Gary," Shaggy said simply.

"Always leaves out us fecking little folk. Shoulda taken into consideration the fecking Genlock population. Thousands outta feckin work!"

"The second game didn't deal much with Darkspawn to begin with, really," Oggy said with a shrug. "At least there were more spots open in Inquisition."

Gary opened his mouth to retort but couldn't find a suitable argument. "Bah."

Draining his tankard, Harry leaned back in his chair. "Besides, Tamriel is way too trippy. You wouldn't like it, Gary."

That caused Oggy to raise an eyebrow. "Trippier than sleeping mountain ranges which are starting to wake up and move around?"

Shaggy grinned. "Oh you have no idea."

Gary slammed his now empty tankard down on the table and burped. "I don't like Tamriel. What kinda feckin fantasy world has extinct dwarves?!"

"And everyone there can use magic," Shaggy added, grinning even wider. "The Templars will shit their pants."

"The Chantry too," Harry said, smiling. "The Divines over at Tamriel are still walking and talking. The Chantry might lose its collective shit and launch an Exalted March."

"Which probably won't go very well."

"Yeah. True that, Shaggy, true that."

Gary peered down at his empty tankard. "Maybe Tamriel ain't so feckin bad after all."

Setting down his tankard, Oggy the Ogre rose to his feet. "Well, at least you got paying work over there."

Taking the cue, the rest of them got up as well.

"It was fun, too," Shaggy said as he and Gary carried the tankards to the bar for cleaning.

Yawning, Harry added, "Doesn't really matter now. It was four years ago."

"And Inquisition is already a year old. How time flies," Oggy snorted. "Well, I'm heading home for the night, everybody. Happy holidays to all of you."

"G'night, Oggy."

"Nighty night, ya feckin calculator."

Harry sighed as he opened the door for the Ogre. Life at the Dragon's Piss Pub was always this lively. Makes life interesting, but also tiring.

"So what's your mum like, Gary?"

"Feck off, ya chicken fried feck."

But Harry the Hurlock wouldn't trade this shit for the world.