Varric chuckled fondly as he took the bottle back and clapped the elf on the back. Gavin was wheezing a bit, scrubbing at his eyes and, to his credit, trying not to breathe too hard. He'd taken a healthy slug off the bottle and, had it not been the sort of thing Sera filled flasks with for combat, he'd have had a healthy buzz. As it was, Varric had drank less and, already, he couldn't feel his teeth.

Tonight was going to be interesting, of that he was absolutely positive.

"To Good 'ol Garbolg and his fine, Back Country Reserves," Varric toasted and Gavin weakly raised a hand in agreement.

Not one to let a friend get entirely drunk, at least not without him, Varric took a longer pull that was strictly advisable before lowering the bottle. Now that he knew what to brace for (there were no words, if only because Thedas had neither jets nor fuel to compare it to), Varric was able to swallow and complete his drink with only a seethed his and a few choice expletives.

The Fallow Mire was still a dank, muck-filled cesspool of despair, but Varric had to hand it to them, they made a mean brew.

"Andraste's Ass, this could kill a Qunari," Varric cursed and blinked rapidly as he lowered the bottle toward Gavin.