Satinalia was, as far as Zevran was concerned, the best day of the year. It was the culmination of eleven-and-three-quarter-months of anticipation, and one week of fasting. A perfect blend of indulgence, religion, culture, and relaxation. The day brought with it a universal sense of enjoyment and gaiety, even if one had to work (as had often been the case for Zevran). But it wasn't so bad; even marks died in a better mood when they were being assassinated on Satinalia. It was, quite simply, such a happy holiday that nothing, however awful, could truly extinguish the festive spirit.

And there was something particularly special, something terribly exciting, about spending the lead-up to Satinalia (and no doubt the day itself, when it rolled around) with people who had never celebrated it before. Morrigan, who openly disdained anything Chantry-related, had been softened by Aneirin's excitement for the approaching day. He, along with Stella (and once again not Rhodri; Zevran privately resolved to get to the bottom of this odd trend), had relayed happy memories of Satinalia in the Circle: as the mages' sole day off in the year, and the only party to boot, it was the day they waited for all year. On Satinalia, dancing and singing were permitted, alcohol was plentiful (or, at least, it had been until Stella's yet-undisclosed incident), and mages were encouraged to eat their fill– and were served enough food to actually do so. Humorous speeches were given by the Senior Enchanters, and Irving and Greagoir's joint address, known as the Year in the Circle, would have mages and Templars alike rolling in the aisles. It all sounded terribly civil, Zevran thought– and with the way Morrigan had needed so little convincing to agree to participate in this year's festivities, it seemed she thought as much, too.

Sten, of course, had never celebrated Satinalia, either. He had maintained his typical stoic silence throughout most of the fond recollections– until a little of Rhodri's less-than-subtle research into Antivan Satinalia foods had made him aware of the fact that baked goods were a large part of the day's dietary offerings.

"So dulcis," Rhodri had said. In the corner of Zevran's eye, her unoccupied hand (the other was keeping Zevran's hand warm, and that was all) twiddled her list, which notably bore the Tevene title: "SATINALIA- FIND FOR DULCIS' PRESENT!"

Though, in fact, the title wasn't notable at all. It was none of Zevran's business what people wrote on their lists, and there was nothing to do but turn back to the person who had addressed him. With a smile, he waggled his brows at Rhodri, whose mental planning was so obvious that, provided Zevran strained his ears enough, the turn of the cogs in her head was audible.

"So, mi sol," he echoed. Rhodri raised her eyebrows; the paper in her hand crinkled a little.

"What, ah… what sort of things would a person need to know about polvonares?" she asked with feigned off-handedness, and quickly added, "if, for example, the person didn't know anything about them. Like– well, like me. Beyond the fact that they're food, and they come in a bag."

Oh, Maker, don't laugh. Don't. Laugh.

Zevran bit his lip. From behind him, Leliana made a barely audible but wickedly contagious giggle; he chomped down a little harder and beseeched the Maker to send a storm that would wash her, and only her, out to sea. Naturally, the Maker did no such thing, and so once Zevran had steeled his diaphragm without divine assistance, he gave Rhodri an outline of the ingredients in polvonares (the hurried scratch of pen on paper accompanied his speech; to aid the writer, Zevran made a point of not remembering which ingredients he had covered and occasionally took the list from the beginning), described the shape and dimensions of the finished products, and waxed lyrical about their irresistible consistency and flavour profile.

"It is a cookie, then," Sten suddenly declared.

Zevran smiled and nodded, "It is! And it's not the only one. There are hojaldrinas, galletitas de anís, amaretti… oh, I could go on all day. Half of the stalls in the Satinalia market sell cookies and other Satinalia sweets."

"I see. Alistair–"

"Huh!" Alistair spun around, eyes wide. "Weird, I've never heard you say my name before. I'm usually 'The Templar.'" He grinned, "Are you getting fond of me, Sten?"

Alistair's inquisitive expression faltered under the warrior's glare; he shut his mouth and turned to the front with wide eyes and pink cheeks.

"Alistair," Sten repeated.

The Templar slowly looked over his shoulder at Sten, wincing like he was about to get a clout for his trouble. "... Yeah?"

With a notable zero hands raised to deliver said clout, Sten watched Alistair intently, unblinkingly. "Are cookies for sale in Fereldan Satinalia markets?"

"Oh! Yes!" he nodded, rather entreatingly. "Loads of them!"

Sten nodded back once. His face was, for the most part, as stony as ever, but the little crinkle in the corner of his eyes was unmistakable.

"Good," he said.

To Zevran's right, Rhodri was still scribbling like fury. Leliana was chuckling and, for the first time since the monumental dissolution of her torrid affair with Alistair, she was strumming cheerfully on her lute. Alistair, whose memory was as short as his ex-lover's, hummed along, albeit in the wrong key. Shale made a disgusted 'ugh.' From somewhere at the back, Morrigan, Stella, and Aneirin shared a low, wicked laugh.

"Good," Zevran echoed in a murmur.

§

"Oh! Oh, Rhod!" Alistair's huge hand clapped onto Rhodri's shoulder, shaking her (and, since he was in Rhodri's arms, Zevran) urgently. "I see the sign!"

Zevran squinted, neck craning as he scanned the unremarkable and entirely white scene ahead of him.

"Where?" he asked after a moment. "I can only see snow, and– ah, is it–? No, no. False alarm. It was more snow."

The end of Alistair's long, meaty index finger came into view, followed by the rest of Alistair as he came forward and bent down until they were roughly the same height at the head.

"Look over there," he said, the side of his face sandwiching against Zevran's until the man's eyelashes could be felt fluttering on his temple. "Just to the right of the tree at the very back there, see the rock?"

Zevran hummed. "I see a white blob, yes, nestled in amongst all the other white blobs."

He grinned as his remark was met with a groan that made his cheek vibrate.

"You know perfectly well that's a rock, you silly duffer," Alistair tutted. "Look at the shape of it!"

"Mmm! Blob-shaped!"

In Zevran's periphery, Rhodri bit her lips and gave a not-quite-stifled snort. Alistair sighed.

"Fine, whatever. It's a blob. Now, you'll see that above that blob," he flicked his finger upward now, "is a big square-shaped blob. That's the sign."

As carefully as he could, Zevran stared at the indicated region of the road ahead– a steep task, given the total lack of colour and shape to distinguish any one thing from another. He tracked his eyes up and down, and when his squint grew so intense that his vision blurred, he could have sworn he caught sight of a painted red letter on a tall column of snow–

"Ah!" he cried. "There is a little writing on that– is it a tree trunk–?"

"There we go!" Alistair gave a congratulatory nod, the movement of which caused his overnight stubble to deeply exfoliate Zevran's left cheek. With that, the Templar unstuck their faces and proceeded to repurpose Zevran's head as a headrest, his jaw bumping away on Zevran's crown as he spoke to Rhodri now. "So when are we doing the bets?"

From the back, Stella let out a coo of delight. "Bets, you say? Count me in! What're we betting on?"

"Oh, good!" Rhodri beamed. "Let's stop and do it here, then, before we get to the sign. I have a feeling What's-Her-Name in the end tavern has increased the prices."

Zevran looked over Rhodri's shoulder at a puzzled Stella and Aneirin, and shot them a smile. "The sign up ahead is a price list of the three taverns in Wysbeche," he explained. "We have passed through here– how many times has it been now–? Three times?"

"Twice," Leliana supplied, and added, "We had such a time deciding where to resupply on our first visit that on the second, we took bets on what tavern we would choose."

Stella and Aneirin shared a squint, which they then treated the rest of the party to.

"That's… rather convoluted," Aneirin said carefully.

"'Tis," Morrigan agreed with a weary nod.

Stella shook her head. "What's the point of even betting on something like that?"

Alistair gave a cackle now. "Believe me, there's a point." He pointed in the direction of the hamlet, "These people are rich, and utterly out of their minds. We looked at that sign when we first passed through– 'cause each tavern advertises a bit there, right?- and, well…"

"They're extravagant," Rhodri finally said. "The sort of opulence you see in the newly-rich Tevinters who do anything and everything money can buy, and then more besides. Remember me telling you about them in the Circle, Stella?"

Stella's eyes widened. "Oh, my days," she breathed. "The nutty nouveau riche? This is them?"

"Mm," Rhodri nodded solemnly. "Fereldan style. They're in a league of their own here. I've never seen so many luxury dog motifs in all my life."

"In fairness," Alistair spoke up now, "if I was super-rich, I'd probably get a few of those marble mabari statues, too."

All eyes went onto the Templar, who gave a scoff at the silent attention.

"Ugh," he declared. "You people wouldn't know good taste if it bit off your bums."

Zevran could have sworn he heard Rhodri whisper to herself in quick Tevene, 'Oh, Black Divine, pray for me,' before she pulled out a sheet of scrap paper and (with one hand, turning down Zevran's offer of assistance) tore it into pieces.

"Right," she announced, "we'll do the vote here and now. The taverns will be described for the benefit of the newcomers, and then people will cast their vote on which tavern they think the majority will want to go to when we take that vote in Wysbeche proper. Is that clear?"

"I want to describe the taverns!" Alistair lifted his head off Zevran's and jerked a thumb at himself. "I'm good at that!"

Rhodri nodded. "All right, but don't-"

"Ah, but I would like to describe the Orlesian tavern," Leliana spoke up now, raising an eyebrow at Alistair.

"Fine," Rhodri nodded again, "but keep the descriptions to the taverns, not the people, sic? Aneirin and Stella should have the same first impression we did."

At this, everyone nodded, and when Alistair gave a chivalrous gesture with his hand, Leliana cleared her throat.

"The first tavern is Château Wysbechois," she began. "Château Wysbechois is an inn built in the Orlesian country manor style, with a…" Leliana paused here to chew her lips a moment, "... a modern touch. They serve many fine wines and liqueurs, and we had the pleasure of refreshing ourselves there the last time we came through Wysbeche."

Aneirin, often inclined to say little (though in his defence, his mouth was often otherwise engaged with Morrigan), spoke up now. "Orlesian style... I cannot imagine that would be popular in a tiny Fereldan hamlet."

"HAH!" Alistair shrieked with laughter. "I bet her wife still isn't speaking to her!" He winked at the newcomer mages and added, "The owner's wife runs the second tavern, see. They'd wanted to open a tavern together, but they fought like cats over the theme of the place. So they each made their own."

Stella shrugged. "Seems sensible enough to me. If you can't agree, do your own thing."

"Oh, there is more to it than that," Leliana chuckled. "But you'll see for yourself once we go in there. We went to the wife's tavern the other time we came through the town, and they were not on the best terms then."

"I see," Stella grinned broadly and rubbed her hands together. "Ooh, I do enjoy a bit of love life drama!"

"Gotta cast your vote first, but," Alistair pointed out, "and before that, I need to tell you about this wife's tavern and the third tavern."

"Ooh, go on," she waved a hand encouragingly. "Tell me, quick. And don't skimp on the juicy details!"

The Templar raised a haughty eyebrow, "I'm here to tell you about the buildings and their features, same as Leli. You'll get the juicy stuff when we get there.

"Now, building number two– also known as 'the wife's tavern,' and, officially, The Dog Cabin, is a tavern done in the Fereldan half-timber style that was most prominent during the Steel Age. The supporting beams are decorated with traditional mabari carvings common to the north-west, and you'll also see the dog theme continue in the fretwork, some of the art, and the furniture. Of particular interest is the four-headed mabari fretwork located above the kitchen door, which has its origins in the short-lived Hydra Revival Era of Fereldan mythology…"

It was a funny thing, listening to Alistair talk about topics on which he was particularly knowledgeable. Though he had never come across as oafish, when conversations turned to those few academic subjects that truly captured him, Alistair's manner of speaking changed dramatically. In those moments– to Zevran's ears, at least, Alistair was decidedly more eloquent, and spoke like he was reading directly from a researcher's tome. Zevran, no stranger to the necessity of minimising himself and his talents, had noticed the discrepancy straight away. Certainly, no mark would willingly have allowed Zevran to get closer had they known what he was. And even in the Warden's party during the earlier days, the initial lack of genuine interest in not dying, and coming across as utterly helpless in consequence, had likely been the only thing keeping the Templar from killing Zevran many times over.

But then there was Alistair, who was and had been in no such danger. What prompted him to conceal his sizeable intellect was rather less clear. Especially, Zevran mused, given the people he was journeying with. Morrigan, though she would have murdered Zevran for saying so, was a decidedly bookish type. Leliana, too, was a wealth of knowledge in the arts, religion, and the Orlesian upper class, all of which she was only too keen to share. Rhodri, with her lists and stacks of well-thumbed books and nightly experimentations, was the classic boffin. And, well. Zevran didn't consider himself to be a slouch in academic respects either, despite minimal formal training. He fluently spoke three (though, with his and Rhodri's shared efforts to impart their mother tongues to each other, it was now closer to four) languages, played the mandolin, cooked beautifully, and had deep understanding of a great many things related to the body. Really, Alistair couldn't have been in better company.

And yet despite it all, he hid himself away. Zevran would need to mention it to Rhodri at some point. But now, as Morrigan groaned and loudly remarked that they would all die of old age if Alistair continued to fixate on small building details, Zevran decided that moment would have to wait. Alistair's face had gone scarlet, and he had fallen silent. While Rhodri, Leliana, and others turned to reproach Morrigan, Zevran reached out and laid a hand on Alistair's shoulder.

"I will need to hear more about the mabari fretwork when we are closer to the buildings, my friend," he murmured with a conspiratorial wink.

Alistair looked at Zevran like he had laid an egg, and it made some small part of Zevran ache sharply.

"Oh!" Alistair said. "... Really?"

"Only if you are willing, of course," Zevran nodded. "I am sure we will have a busy time ahead of us, but if you have the time and inclination…"

"I… yeah. Yeah! Sure." The Templar grinned and winked back, "Though I guess for now, I'd better keep it short for her sake," he jerked his head in Morrigan's direction and gave a contemptuous snort. "Anyway, third tavern's a big Steel Age Gwaren-style log cabin, got a curved roof that looks like a paperback opened out. Dunno what those are called, but. I think they're foreign. Anyway, that one's called The Greenhouse."

"It's the only one we haven't been in yet," Leliana had paused in her Morrigan-directed death glaring to add.

Alistair nodded. "Yep. It had lots of gardens out the front, didn't it? I think that might actually be its theme, but we won't know unless we have a look. The sign said they serve plenty of wines, spirits, and juices, too, which is a bit exotic."

Rhodri smiled and gave Alistair's shoulder a fond nudge. "Thank you for giving the outline, Alistair, and you too, Leli. So now, to cast votes, take a paper. Write your name and the tavern you think will win the majority vote, fold it, and put it in this bag," she extracted her money bag and emptied its contents into one of her pockets.

"What's in it for the winners, then?" Stella asked curiously. Rhodri's eyes widened.

"Mm! Forgive me, I had forgotten about that. The winners don't have to pay for any of the refreshments tonight."

Stella hummed approvingly. "Well, that's very reasonable! Who's got a pen?"

–

After a brief spell of standing in front of the price list sign and speculating (the price per room had gone up in two of the three taverns; Alistair, Leliana, and Stella were mass-producing increasingly gossipy theories as to why this might be), the party drew in to Wysbeche. The sunlight, though directly overhead as it was now, was so weak that it brought to mind– Zevran supposed only for himself, Sten, and, if she had any memory of it, for Rhodri– the first hour of sunlight in the Antivan summers, when the sun was visible but ineffectual as far as heating went. More ornament than use, as Cristofania used to say on those mornings.

Said placement of the sun meant, then, that it had to be mid-morning; it was often setting by early afternoon now, and aside from the fact that it meant less walking (no-one in the party, thank the Maker, was willing to travel in the dark), it was a terribly depressing thing altogether.

The Wysbechers undoubtedly thought differently, though. Mid-morning was an hour past the end of the working day, and that meant the drinks and merriment would be taking off. And as the party wandered into the centre of the town and was greeted with the sight before them, there was every reason to assume that an eventful visit, if nothing else, was guaranteed.

Château Wysbechois had two enormous white turrets– this, the innkeeper had advised on their previous visit, was where the rooms (now sixty-five gold per night!) were situated. Strung between the turrets was a colossal piece of canvas, held up with the same rope used to tie felled Wysbecher logs together, and an elegant hand had painted on the canvas, in enormous black letters, 'DELILAH BRADSHAW HAS A MOULDY CELLAR!' Underneath the text, an arrow of similar largeness had been drawn, pointing at the middle tavern. Said middle tavern, Zevran noted, featured no banner attempting to defend itself against the accusation. But the woman who owned it was standing outside the entry to her establishment, and she was engaged in a screaming match with the woman Zevran recognised as owning Château Wysbechois– and being her wife. The two ladies were both red in the face– no doubt from the effort of making themselves so voluble– and were variously gesticulating at each other and the sign.

"FOR THE LAST TIME, EDINA," the shorter of the women roared, "TAKE THAT BASTARDING SIGN DOWN OR I'LL TAKE IT DOWN MYSELF!"

"Clean out your cellar once in a while, and I might!" Edina shouted back. "It's no wonder you never have any customers! You treat the place like you treat our bed well enough–"

"Don't you dare–"

"I DARE, DELILAH! You left enough toast crumbs under the sheets to fill a kiddy's sandpit this morning. By the Maker, you're a GRUB!"

Delilah's mouth fell open, at which point the taller woman broke out into song detailing (in rhyme, no less!) the slovenly habits of the former. Zevran could have fitted a plate in Stella's mouth, so broad was her smile.

"Oo-hoo!" The mage cackled. Stella put a hand on Alistair and Leliana's shoulders, and ripped them to either side of her. "Is this the drama I was promised? Wa-he-hey! Not here for a whole minute and it's already takin' off!"

Zevran wasn't about to try and convince himself he was any less of a busybody than Stella; he was biting down on his lips, cheek pressed against Rhodri's with one hand on the other side of her face, his fingers palpating the minimal flesh there with–he realised once he caught Rhodri's enquiring stare–quite some intensity. With an apologetic little laugh, he moved his hand away; Rhodri chuckled, set him down on his feet, and pulled her money bag out of her pockets.

"Well," she said, taking a few steps back, "now seems as good a time as any to decide where we'll go next. Please remember that there is no abstaining from the vote unless you do not plan to join the party during the restocking! Right: all who vote that we restock in Château Wysbechois, please stand to my left."

Leliana was the first of the party to spring forward and plant herself in the requested location. She was followed shortly after by Alistair and Stella. The three of them looked around expectantly at the rest of the party; Morrigan, once Stella had caught her gaze, curled her lip and rolled her eyes, but stayed where she was.

While Rhodri called for the second lot of voters, Alistair was counting out the total party members, after which he counted the three who had voted for Château Wysbechois. And then, when he had finished these, proceeded to make the same counts on his fingers. The one person to declare their support for The Dog Cabin was Shale, and Shale had only voted thusly after looking around and seeing that nobody else had registered any support for it.

"And all who vote that we go to The Greenhouse," Rhodri finally said, "please stand to my right."

As Zevran made to stand at Rhodri's right, she handed him her money bag and asked that he hold it there as a symbol of her position there.

"Ooh," he grinned at her. "I think we have won, mi sol!"

Rhodri counted everyone out with a flat palm, nodding solemnly. "Yes, I think so. Three for Château Wysbechois, one for The Dog Cabin, and seven for The Greenhouse. Eight, if you count Jeppe. Now, as for the bets, please stay where you are while I count them out."

She caught the money bag with an appreciative nod as Zevran tossed it back to her. After a few moments of unfolding the paper and reading the bets (and the names of the bet-makers) aloud, the winners were declared: Bodahn and Sandal, Morrigan, Sten, and Zevran. Sporting congratulations were issued by the losers, once Alistair and Leliana could stop whimpering forlornly about lost opportunities to delve into the particulars of the neighbourhood conflict; said congratulations were accepted by the winners with varying degrees of delight and, in Morrigan's case, smugness.

"Right," Rhodri beamed and rubbed her hands together. "To The Greenhouse!"

In the warmer months, the exterior of The Greenhouse had looked far more spectacular. The area surrounding the tavern had been a knee-high blanket of wildflowers of every colour. Wisterias were trained over a garden arch, where the violet flowers hung like grapes over the flagstone path leading to the front door, and up on the first floor's verandah, a number of wheelbarrows had been strategically parked, out of which spilled curling green ferns. Climbing ivy was trained on the outer walls and around the windows and must have created enormous work for anyone wanting to clear out the rooftop gutters.

Now, though, with the cold season in full swing, everything had died back. With no leaves or flowers, whatever wasn't covered in snow looked like a graveyard for plants, their skeletons every-bloody-where on the lot. Everything that had given the place its storybook charm, Zevran pondered glumly, now gave it a distinctly horrific visage.

But then (now sans Shale, who professed to be thoroughly sick of people at this late stage and remained outside), they opened the door and Zevran, to his delight and, quite frankly, astonishment, was reminded that exteriors were not always indicative of what lay within. Going by the shared gasps as everyone else poured inside, he wasn't the only one re-learning the lesson.

The interior of The Greenhouse was rather more like a jungle than a drinking establishment. Oh, there were tables and chairs, and a quick glance revealed that the owner had been able to fit a bar in, too– though Zevran suspected she'd had to take a machete to the dense undergrowth to do so. The furnishings aside, everything was plants. From floor to ceiling, there were flowers, vines, shrubs, and even small trees, many of which Zevran recognised as originating from the dense rainforests of the tropical and subtropical north. It would have been astonishing to see them thriving as they did here, but it occurred to Zevran that it was deliciously hot and humid in the tavern. How such a temperature was maintained when there were no fireplaces in sight was anyone's guess. Could the exceedingly wealthy procure invisible heating elements? Enchanted hot wood? He would have to ask Rhodri. However it was, Zevran's woefully dry skin was absorbing moisture like a sponge and, while gentle croaks of horror at the sudden heat were issuing from the Southerners, he drew in a lungful of warm, wet air and thanked his lucky stars he'd voted to come here.

From over at the bar, a woman of sixty or so beamed and waved them in.

"'Ello!" she called out, striding over the springy moss floor to them in bare feet and rolled-up sleeves and trouser legs. She was wearing an apron that had a spade in one pocket and a wooden spoon in another; Zevran decided he would not consider this too closely, and would possibly stick to ordering meals that required no preparation. "I'm Vera. Would you pop your shoes off before coming any further in? Donegasque moss don't like the snow, see."

Rhodri, who looked like she was about to die of unspent amusement, clenched her wobbly jaw, and Zevran knew why even before her wide eyes went to him. Mirth had not been the primary objective of their herbalism lessons, but it was a welcome bonus.

With a smile, he nudged Rhodri. "Go on, mi sol, do it before you explode."

She wheezed through her nose and with a nod, she turned to the baffled woman.

"'Allo, Vera," she squeaked, upon which she dissolved into peals of laughter, propping herself up by the knees as she howled at the floor. Zevran, much as he tried, didn't quite keep his snort in either, and he found it decidedly worrying that he couldn't tell if said snort was due to the contagious nature of the current laugh, or the wretched joke itself. Maker help him, what was becoming of him?

Bloody Alistair.

Mercifully, Vera took the greeting with a wide grin, clapping her hands together delightedly.

"At last!" she cried. "I've been waiting for years for someone to make an aloe vera joke! Look, I even put a few pots of the stuff on the bar counter," Vera waved her hand in the direction of the bar, "and still nobody ever picked up on it! Are you lot from the North, then?"

"Some of us are," Rhodri gasped. She pulled her boots off, forced herself upright, and nodded at the company. "Most are from the South."

"A mix, eh? Love it. Love it!" With a spring to her step, Vera bounded back toward the bar. "Well, come in, then! Half off your first round of drinks for being the first to make the joke!"

Amid a flurry of approving murmurs, the party followed her in and situated themselves at a long table close to the bar. Beside one of the succulents on the counter, Zevran caught sight of a stacked assortment of wooden blocks, carved and painted to depict numbers, words, and moon phases. In their current configuration, they read: '09 DAYS UNTIL SATINALIA!' which Zevran made a mental note of for fasting purposes. Vera appeared a moment later from behind the bar with a handful of menus that she dispensed around the table. The neck of a bottle was sticking out of her apron pocket.

"Maker, this is exciting," she cooed. "I don't usually talk to people from abroad. Not face-to-face, anyway. Let me see if I can guess where you're from by your accent, all right?" She turned to Sten with a grin. "Bet I know where you're from already, eh?"

Sten, unsmiling, watched her blankly. "You may guess if you wish."

"Is it Seheron? I hope so, 'cause if I'm right, I've got a treat for you."

"I am, and I doubt that very much."

Vera, unperturbed, waggled a finger. "Mm-mm, don't be so sure, Ser! I've got plants and bevvies from all over Thedas!" She reached a hand into her apron and pulled out the bottle, its pale yellow, opaque liquid sloshing merrily within as she proudly held it out to Sten. His eyebrows rose a little.

Zevran frowned. "Is that lemon juice?"

"No, lad," Vera shook her head. "This is palm wine, harvested from the coconut palms native to Seheron, Rivain, and the north of Tevinter."

"... I am impressed," Sten eventually conceded, and when his usual flinty expression returned, he nodded at the bottle once. "Very well. I will have one glass of the maraas-lok. It should be filled to the height of eight finger-widths."

With a pleased smile, Vera noted the order down and put the bottle back in her apron pocket. "Consider it done."

Leliana, who had been watching on with a delighted smile, shuffled forward on her chair. "I wonder if you can guess my accent, madame."

The publican chuckled. "'Course I can. That's Orlesian, isn't it?" When Leliana beamed and nodded, Vera ran a finger halfway down her menu, "All of these are Orlesian wines. Liqueurs on the back page. Got a Lydesian crème de menthe that'll open any and all airways that I can heartily recommend in this weather."

When a gleam-eyed Leliana requested a moment to browse the menu for the wine of her dreams, Vera turned to Alistair, who was smiling shyly. Before she could address him, presumably to continue her guessing game, the Templar cut her off in a mumble.

"Excuse me," he fidgeted with his fingers, his face taking quite a flush to, "d'you make, um… well, it's a bit silly…"

Vera, who looked like she'd never seen bashfulness in her life, glanced at the party worriedly, relaxing only when Rhodri left her chair and stood behind Alistair, giving his shoulders a little squeeze. She ducked her head down to his level.

"Nothing to be embarrassed about, amicus," she soothed. "We like what we like, sic? And I think if anyone will have your drink, it will be Vera." She smiled and squeezed his shoulders again. "It looks like she has at least one of everything here, don't you think?"

Alistair smiled weakly. With a sigh and a nod, he turned back to the publican. "D'you serve… um… fruit jumbles here?"

The publican's eyes widened (and at the other end of the table, Morrigan's rolled– several times, in fact. Out of sheer nosiness, Zevran kept her in the line of his gaze, watching on as she leaned toward Aneirin and whispered something inaudible to him. And, if Zevran wasn't mistaken– which he rarely was– Aneirin's face fell ever-so-slightly before he shot the witch a smirk that didn't reach his eyes).

"Fruit–? Yes, of course I do!" Vera laughed and smacked Alistair's shoulder with her notepad. "You silly goose! You don't think you're too old for fruit jumbles, do you? My daughter's a good ten years older than you, and she still has me make her one every day for breakfast 'fore she goes out logging."

"Ah!" Rhodri beamed at Alistair. "Well, now! Worth not getting the gossip, my brother, sic?" She patted his head fondly and returned to her seat.

The publican raised an eyebrow. "What gossip's that, then?"

Alistair jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the door, "The other owners–"

"Oh," Vera cut him off there. "Hah! I can give you the gossip about them, don't you worry, but let me get these drinks first, eh? Now, for today's fruit, I've got some lovely strawbs– local cultivars, no less! And there's seedless clementines and green grapes. How's that?"

Alistair bit down on his bottom lip, his smile crinkling his eyes. Zevran was sure he hadn't seen the man smile so widely.

"That's great," he said. "They used the same fruits when Eamon had the cooks make me one."

"Perfect," Vera scribbled away on her list again. "Do you like more syrup, or less?"

"More. Definitely more."

"'Definitely… more…'" Vera murmured, finishing writing the last letter with a flourish. She looked ready to move on to Zevran when Aneirin hesitantly raised his hand to catch her eye. "Yes, darlin'?"

Aneirin's voice was even softer than Alistair's had been, and his gaze alternated between her and the table. "Could I also have a–a fruit jumble, please, Ser?"

While Vera declared in nothing less than a trumpet that Aneirin could have twenty fruit jumbles if he had the coin for it, Morrigan froze, reddening like she was being boiled alive. And then, to Zevran's (and Aneirin's) barely-concealed astonishment, the Witch of the Wilds, who as far as anyone knew had never so much as feigned remorse for her actions, raised a hand and ordered a fruit jumble for herself.

"Yes, love, you'll have one too… so that's one with more syrup, two with less, was it? Oh-? And two more for the gentleman and his son? Extra syrup for both? Maker, but the fruit jumbles are popular today, aren't they? Good, good…" Vera's pen stilled; she turned to Zevran. "Right– ooh, look at those swirls on your cheek! Handsome tattoos for a handsome feller. And where are you from, gorgeous? Not Orlais, I wouldn't think."

Zevran chuckled, "You would not like to guess? Not Orlais is quite correct, but you are welcome to narrow it down, if you like."

Vera squinted. "... Are you Antivan?"

"Well done," he smiled. "Rialto born, Antiva City raised."

She clenched one fist victoriously. "I'm getting good at this! Right, well, we've got a few Antivan wines, but it's mostly spirits here." With an 'Mm!' Vera held up a finger and added, "Managed to get my hands on a bottle of Seleny limoncello the other month– had to fight a couple people for it, mind, 'cause it's made from a fusato cultivar only grown in the east of that region, but it was worth the scars! Would a nip of that tickle your fancy?"

A part of Zevran wanted to howl; no self-respecting Antivan drank limoncello as an aperitivo. But then, neither did they drink brandy as an aperitivo– an offence Zevran, then impaired by his excitement, had committed in Denerim. Leliana smirked at him; Zevran pretended not to see it as he smiled and ordered a glass. With his order placed, and the good Sister's eyes still on him, he turned to Rhodri and brushed the back of his hand over her cheek. Rhodri gave a low hum of contentment, hugging his hand to her cheek with her shoulder. Leliana, the inn, and everything else in it, melted away.

After the good Sister had given her order ('a large glass madame, please, of the pinot néron 87 Blessed.') and Rhodri started talking to the publican, Zevran was brought back to the Land of the Living, at which point he watched an increasingly-puzzled Vera try and fail to place Rhodri's accent. She had guessed, to Rhodri's visible despair, Nevarra. Then she guessed the Anderfels. When asked if she might perhaps hail from Antiva, Rhodri advised Zevran that it wasn't too late to complete his contract, and finally, when subsequent Rivain fell flat, said not-Rivaini pleaded that the publican make Tevinter her next guess. Vera indulged the request, and all was well again.

"Got there in the end," she winked at Rhodri. "My first Vint! Well, I might not know 'em on sight, but I know well enough what they like to drink. How d'you feel about suavi reds?

"Forgive me, I don't like alcohol."

"Not a problem, I've got plenty of things to tempt a Northern palate!" Vera held up her hands like she was clutching a massive sandwich, "How about this: a big glass of nectar. Nothing but the juice of ripe Val Dorma seed-apples, with seed-apple sugar, a little ice, and a tiny wooden umbrella."

Rhodri's mouth fell open.

"An umbrellicula?" she gasped. "I– please, yes! I don't know what a seed-apple is, but I'll take it, whatever it is!"

Vera raised her eyebrows. "So the little umbrellas have a name, eh? The vintners sent a bag of them along with the nectar bottles, never told me what they were for. I thought I'd gotten half of someone's diorama kit! You've got one coming your way, in any case!" After noting the order, Vera turned to Stella, who was sitting upright and watching her with an intent smile. "Lucky last, darlin'! You look like you've got a drink on your mind already. What'll it be?"

With a dramatic pinch of her fingers, Stella said, "I need a fizzer, my love."

"'Course you do," Vera nodded and jotted it down. "Champers and…?"

"Honestly, Vera, I'll kiss you if you tell me you've got peach nectar."

The publican waved her hand with a laugh. "My old boy would want a kiss too, love. Don't give it to one if you can't give it to the other. Peach fizzer it is! I'll even put a fresh peach quarter on the glass for you, eh?"

Stella gave a delighted trill. "For that, you can get your parents and I'll kiss them, too. Bloody marvellous!" She slumped in her chair with a giddy smile as Vera left for the bar, and didn't say another word. Alistair and Leliana shared a giggle and looked away; Sten was watching after Vera with more interest than he had shown in anything. Morrigan was making a career out of eyeing Aneirin guiltily, and Rhodri was tensing and untensing her legs hard enough to bounce. Zevran pressed his toes into the cool moss and wondered why they hadn't come here sooner.

Author's note:

I made up the Fereldan fruit jumble as a sort of rich children's party drink. Haven't a clue what it tastes like, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't interested in trying it. This is how I pictured it, in case you're curious:

1. Fruit juice- ideally something clear. For convenience let's headcanon that fruit juice clarification technology has come to Ferelden and it's apple juice for the sake of a recipe.
2. Fruit syrup- also clear. Probably something like the syrup you see in tinned fruit today, but made of fruit sugars as it's Ferelden and table sugar is hard to come by.
3. Fruit cut up into small pieces- half a grape/ half a piece of tangerine sort of size.
4. Mix the juice and syrup together, ideally 7:3 juice to syrup ratio, but some people (looking at you, Alistair) like it sweeter. Put the cut-up fruit pieces into the drink, et voila! It's a fruit jumble!