Chapter Text
"Explain the rules to me again."
Cullen shifted awkwardly in his chair. Setting up a makeshift tavern in the Inquisition's first Deep Roads outpost had seemed like a good idea upon its inception. A cheap and convenient morale booster and a way to utilise a discovered cache of dwarven ale barrels. He had not really envisaged himself as a patron, however. Especially not in the manner which he was now inescapably ensnared; an inaugural celebration which was taking the form of a drinking contest.
Seated immediately to Cullen's left, Varric shook his head in a denigrative manner.
"It's simple. We all get a tankard of ale then see who can drink theirs the fastest."
"That's it?"
"What were you expecting; a list of Chantry approved guidelines?"
Cullen did his best to ignore the smirk upon the dwarf's face. "No…" He replied, slowly. "But what exactly do we win?"
"You're overthinking this. There is no prize."
From across the hastily constructed and rather unsteady table, Iron Bull regarded him somberly.
"Inebriation and respect. What more could you want?"
"Well I-"
"It's more that you want to avoid outright losing," Bull continued. "Because the penalty for being last is well-deserved mockery."
Cullen narrowed his eyes. "For how long?"
"Until we get bored." He broke into a boorish guffaw.
Cullen frowned. He was obviously outmatched. His two opponents were seasoned drinkers. They spent so much time in Skyhold's tavern that they might as well be considered load-bearing supports.
'Is it too late to back out?' He mused.
'Yes, obviously,' came the rapidly considered answer.
Cullen looked up to see Rylen approaching their table. He pulled up a chair, sat down, and briefly gazed around the room before releasing a small snort of approval.
"Place looks good. I'm honestly surprised that you got this set up so quickly."
"We helped," Bull said, gesturing to Varric. "Now we're getting first privileges on the ale. Fastest to empty a tankard wins."
Rylen shrugged. "Fair enough."
Cullen closed his eyes and took three slow, steady breaths. There was absolutely no way that he could best Rylen in a drinking race. He had seen the man consume ale from an upturned templar helm! He turned his attention back to the group to discover Rylen actually relaying this particular anecdote to those assembled.
"...wax to block the eye-holes and just filled the whole helm with ale…"
Cullen turned away from this dramatic retelling just as Inquisitor Evelyn appeared at his side.
"What are you four up to?"
"Drinking game," Varric replied. "You in?"
"Sure."
Evelyn was just taking her seat at the table when Dorian ambled over. Bull greeted him enthusiastically.
"Vint! We're about to sample those dwarven ale barrels you guys unearthed."
"Oh indeed?" The mage said, swiftly retrieving a chair. "That does sound appealing!"
Cullen studied the now considerately appreciated group. With the arrival of these additional participants, his odds of not ending this drinking race in last place had been significantly improved.
'This might not be so bad after all.'
Soon enough the new barkeep had furnished the group with tankards of the dwarven ale. It was much darker that Cullen had anticipated, and an exploratory sniff had revealed a musty, earthy aroma to the beverage.
"Is this fine?" He asked. "Maker-knows how long those barrels had lain there undiscovered."
"It's fine," Varric quickly replied.
"Are you sure? I-"
"Is everyone ready?
"Should we not-"
"Three, two, one. Go!"
His concerns falling upon deaf ears, Cullen scrambled to pick up his tankard. He closed his eyes and began to drink.
'Slow and steady. Ignore what is going on around you.'
The musty aroma he had noticed was much more pronounced in the flavour of the ale, which had a distinctly soily taste.
'Breathe through your nose. Maker's breath! This is horrible stuff!'
There was an unpleasant dryness to the ale that he did not care for in the slightest.
'This is like drinking fermented stone! Sweet Maker! What if there is lyrium dust in this??'
Cullen breathed in sharply as his gag reflex was suddenly and unwillingly stimulated. The resulting coughs and splutters caused the contents of his tankard to spray across the table in a wide arc. While he struggled to expel the ghastly ale from his lungs, Cullen could vaguely make out numerous exclamations from those around him.
"f*cking hell, mate!"
"I'm absolutely drenched!"
"Are you all right, Curly?"
'Well so much for that!"
"Uh, Commander?"
It was not until someone rather vigorously patted him on the back that Cullen was finally able to catch his breath. He opened very watery eyes and sheepishly raised his head.
"Sorry."
