The Hanged Man attracts all sorts. Well, most sorts. Thieves and sailors, merchants and tradesman. And ancestors know there are enough dwarves hired on with the half-dozen smuggling rings in Kirkwall to make them a common sight. But the dwarf that stumbles up to the counter is different.

It's not the shocking red red hair, or the impressive mustache that matches. Hell, it's not even the Warden tabbard that stretches a little too tight over the chest and runs a little too long over the knees. Wardens always have stories, and, Varric knows, Wardens after a Blight have more stories than most.

No, Varric muses as he rests his chin on steepled fingers. It's not the sight of the dwarf. It's the smell.

The dwarf reeks of ale and piss and sweat and dirt, but there's more to it than that. There's sword polish and sea spray and the nose-stinging bitterness that is the Deep Roads. Leather and hay, dust and dung, charcoal and smoke and hot steel. It's as though every smell the dwarf ever encountered latched on and never let go. It's not the sort of smell you forget, if you survive it.

Half the patrons have already cleared out by the time the dwarf stumbles away from the bar with a mug of ale. It's the biggest mug the Hanged Man offers, but it's still half-drained before the dwarf takes a seat with a thunderous belch.

The burp is final confirmation. Varric stands and nods to the bartender. Can't let something like an empty stein ruin a good tale.

"Oghren, is it?"

Oghren grumps at the smooth voice. "Depends who's asking." Sodding ship. Almost as shifty and evil as horses.

"The name's Varric Tethras. I believe we have a common acquaintance." A blonde dwarf with an open shirt and no beard sits across the table.

Oghren takes a long drink of ale. "Yeah? And who would that be?"

Varric spreads his finger and smiles. "Oh, a certain mage. One that left the Grey Wardens on... questionable terms."

"Heh." Oghren shakes his head. "You know sparkle-fingers?"

"You could say that." Varric leans back. "He the reason you've come to the fine city of Kirkwall?"

"Yep." The word slips out of his mouth before Oghren catches the self-satisfied curve of Varric's lips. "No, not like that. She sent me here. Wanted me to make sure he hadn't, you know." Oghren waggles his fingers. "Done something."

A fresh mug of ale thumps onto the table. Varric nods. "On me."

There's something about Varric that's a little too smooth for Oghren. "Yeah, I know how this works. What do you want for it?"

Varric smiles and leans forward. "Stories." The word is a conspiratorial whisper.

"Eh?" No one's ever bought Oghren an ale or ten to get him to talk, though he's had a fair few used as a bribe him to shut him up. "What kind of stories?"

"Well, Blondie has told me enough about the Hero of Ferelden after the Blight, but he also told me you were there during the whole thing."

Oghren takes a long pull on the ale. It's nothing like dwarven ale, but it's better than the piss they try to pass off in Amaranthine. "So you want to know about the Warden, eh?"

There's a moment where Varric's eyes light up and the corners of his mouth twitch in what is almost a grin before his face goes back to that smooth coolness. "Oh, no more than any other."

"Hah!" Oghren slams the mug onto the table and laughs. "You're a lying little nug-humper if I ever saw one, but I've got stories as long as you've coin."

This time Varric doesgrin. "Is that a promise?"

Oghren leans back in his chair and props his feet on the table. "Well, the Warden was a duster, you know. Damn good fighter with a hell of a bite."

"Bite?" Varric raises an eyebrow.

"Heh, yeah. Sharp teeth, that one. I squealed like a stuck nug. But that's not the way it all started. There I was, a drunken exile thingy at the gates to the Deep Roads…"

Thanks to xogs for the beta and tumblr user authoressrhia for the prompt of "Oghren meets Varric."