Varric found Hairy-nickname pending-in the infirmary, and decided they would be buddies.

It was a similar feeling to the one he got around Hawke. And Isabela, when she knocked out a lecherous drunk and emptied his pockets the first time she set foot into The Hanged Man. Anders too; that one just dripped of angst and history. Varric just didn't expect his story to end that way.

Their aura all screamed of stories waiting to be told.

He found Hairy lying on a bedroll on the ground, staring up at the ceiling, with an angry purple inkblot on his smooth head.

Varric turned to the elven servant behind him and nodded to her. Nimble on her feet, the woman went to Hairy and knelt in front of his bedroll. She set down the tray Varric ordered. She passed by Varric again, and coin exchanged hands.

Hairy didn't move, didn't even turn his head to acknowledge the tray with the roast quarter leg, hot broth, fresh bread, and cold mead.

He didn't acknowledge Varric who set down the low stool at the foot of the bedroll and sat there like a merchant marking his stall.

Varric could raise an Open for Business banner then and there and Hairy would probably just ignore it.

"That was some fight, huh?"

No response.

"Come here often?" He, of course, referred to the infirmary.

No response. Hawke would've liked that one. Would've replied with something witty.

This, though, felt like chatting up a lady who wants you to go away.

"I'm Varric. This is Bianca." He saw the elf's eyes search around for a second, looking for Bianca, before returning to staring at the ceiling. Varric smiled; he'd introduce them again next time. "Listen, I watched that fight. It was good going until they started ganging up on you. Just wanted to say that you could've easily won that if they fought fair. You won that fight. The soldiers know it. The audience knows it. The Seeker knows it. So…yeah. That's all I came to say."

He was just about to leave when the elf finally spoke, and whatever Varric expected to hear, it wasn't that.

First, the voice. Hairy looked forty-ish and had the aura of someone with lots of tragedy happening around them, like he'd been slapped around by life so many times all his hair fell out, so Varric expected gruff or bitter. This one's clean and clear, young but also somehow old.

Second, the diction and accent. Neutral, leaning on Ferelden. Diction's fucking perfect, like a thespian reading from a novel.

Third and most importantly, what he said.

"No, I lost that fight. Seeker Cassandra only meant to test my skills. I took it too far by showing off. I only needed to show her I knew basic defensive spells. But I went too far with the first soldier, and that forced her hand. She could not allow her soldiers to lose to an apostate, or else morale would suffer. And if it does, I would likely have to start sleeping with one eye open. People are already scared of mages, on principle. My actions only proved their fear was justified. The Seeker was right to stop me. I am to blame for this. I lost that fight the second I showed off."

That was…something. Varric didn't understand what yet, but it was something. He turned to look at Hairy, observing him openly this time. "Can you repeat all that to the Seeker's face? I want to watch. She seems stone-cold, but one time I told her a story, she had the most animated reactions."

Back to no reaction. Varric sighed. "Do all elves brood?" A long time ago, Varric asked the same question to Fenris. The broody Tevinter elf said, I don't brood. In a broody tone. With a brooding expression.

This broody apostate elf, however, just threw him a look.

"Moping, then."

No reply.

"It's the bruise, isn't it?"

The elf turned his back to Varric.

Heh. Cheery guy.

Feeling unwanted, Varric stood up. He'd try again next time. A broody elf with that kind of arrogance, who talked fancy? He's like honey to the bullies. The prouder he stands, the more bullies will find him irresistible to punch down. He may be able to hold his own in an alley fight, but Varric hates to see the elf turn tragic. Prejudice leaves scars. He'd seen it turn a friend into a terrorist. He'd hate to see another good person turn into a monster.

He had only taken a step when he noticed the other elf one bedroll over. A green tinge was normal in that place. This green tinge was not. It had the same color as the demon-shitting butthole in the sky, and it covered the elf's left hand, fingers to elbow.

And then it sparked and sputtered lightning.

"Uh, Chuckles?" he said, somehow stumbling unconsciously into the best nickname for the broody apostate. He reached behind him to tap the other elf whose back was turned. He felt a foot and started shaking it without tearing his eyes away from the green light spewing from the other patient's hand. "Chuckles, I think you should see this!"