Varric settled in on the log and, in a mostly futile effort, gave the guttering fire a jab with a nearby stick. It crackled miserably but, to its credit, it didn't go out. The bottle Gavin lifted up was dark and dusty, which was odd given how damp the marsh was. At some point it had been sealed up with wax, which was either a very good or a very bad sign, and Varric examined the label in the dim firelight.

"Garbolg's Back Country Reserve?" Varric read aloud and cocked an eyebrow. "That sounds promising."

With a name like Garbolg, how could they not make quality liquor? Honestly, it was that or become a mercenary, not many other professions would tolerate that sort of name.

Varric twisted the cap off of it and, without pausing to do something as ridiculous as smelling the liquid contained in Garbolg's Back Country Reserve, threw back and mouthful of it. He lurched forward almost immediately, eyes wide, and just barely managed to keep from dissolving into a flurry of sputtering coughs.