Fenris bristles, but that's nothing terribly strange: he is always in some bristled or semi-bristled state, except perhaps when utterly soused. Which is what he'd been trying to be here (no Fenris, you were trying to overhear demon-type gossip), only now he's wearing his alcohol instead of drinking it.

Perhaps it is for the best. While living in the mansion in Kirkwall he'd developed a taste for Tevinter wines of exquisite and wildly expensive vintage well beyond his usual means, and regular tavern swill had never been quite so easy to stomach after that. It usually serves only to make him even grumpier.

"The floor certainly needed it," he grouses, because for a guy that used to let slaver corpses lay about like so many useless knick-knacks and decorations in his hallways he gets awfully judgmental about bar cleanliness, "though I did not." Yeah. He is so going to have all of his drinks spat into if he tries to come here again. When the poor lass skitters off with some mumbled promise of a towel, he turns a closer eye on the man who'd like as not stopped him from making even more of an ass of himself. He has a rather Distinctive Look, as it happens. In Fenris' experience, in all the south only the men of Orlais tend to have such stylish facial hair, and Dorian certainly doesn't sound like an Orlesian. "Who are you?"