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Introduction
Hawke & Tethras Estates is a joint venture, conceived when its illustrious founders were betrayed and left for dead miles beneath the earth in an ancient dwarven ruin. Despite facing what amounted to almost certain death, the intrepid adventurers did not give in to despair. Fighting off hordes of fearsome monsters by day, by night they amused themselves by making a list of all the things they would do in the unlikely event of their survival. Through great cunning and determination they managed to escape the Deep Roads, returning victorious to Kirkwall, where, upon finding themselves not only alive but rich beyond their wildest imaginings, the dashing pair set out to make their dreams a reality. As winemaking seemed a more cheerful prospect than fratricide, it was determined that was where they should begin. And thus, from these humble beginnings, a bold new legacy was founded.
Offerings
Hawke & Tethras quickly took the wine world by storm with their innovative and radical approach toward oenology. This definitive edition features a comprehensive catalog of their groundbreaking oeuvre, including reprints of the original promotional materials, and an afterword by renowned Thedosian oenophile Ser Rupert Parker, author of the influential newsletter The Wine Analyst.
Blight Proof , 9:32 Dragon
Label: (A drawing of a woman and a dwarf making an obscene gesture toward the mouth of a cave.)
Vintner’s notes: 'Six crates of slightly moldy but still perfectly serviceable apples, fermented for two weeks in a vat along with the contents of several foraged bottles of unknown origin, strained through a pair of torn trousers and finished with just a touch of glitterdust.' -MH
Description: Powerful. Unexpected. This scrappy little vintage is a bit unconventional, but Maker’s breath, she gets results. A trash-talking underdog with a bite to rival her bark and an infectious lust for life, this wine doesn’t seduce you so much as headbutt you in the face. The kind of beverage you’ll want to have on hand for a tough scrape, a bar fight, or even just a friendly game of cards. Stick with this wine long enough and you’ll find that she’s full of surprises. Like glitterdust. But behind that flashy exterior, she’s got a heart of solid gold. What else is there to say? The aroma is expressive, and the terroir is, shit, I don’t know, earthy. It’s the greatest wine in the history of wines.
Suggested pairing: Sunlight, fresh air, shiny trinkets scavenged from the lair of an elemental horror, and a couple vials of elfroot.*
*(highly recommended)
Accolades:
“Better than being dead beneath the earth, but only barely.” - Fenris
“Maker preserve us, I’m fairly certain that’s not what’s meant by ‘sparkling wine’.” - Lay Brother Sebastian Vael
“Is it supposed to make your mouth go numb? Oh. OH. I don’t... feel well.” - Merrill
“I’m not drinking that.” - Captain of the Guard Aveline Vallen
Official Review in The Wine Analyst:
“Dear Readers,
I’m afraid I must recount a most unsettling incident. After a week spent touring the Tantervale vineyards, I had at last completed the final leg of my journey, and was eagerly anticipating a return to the comforts of home. As I climbed the stairs to my chambers, I thought fondly of the people I had met, the wines I had sampled, and above all, the rest that awaited me when I retired to my bed. Yet this was not to be. For when I opened the door to my room, to my great surprise and alarm I discovered a dark-haired, lanky woman in piecemeal armor leaning against my desk. Before I had time to do more than start back and inhale a deep breath with which to call for aid, she leapt forward and, seizing my hand, began to pump it vigorously.
‘Rupert,’ she cried out. ‘What an honor! What a privilege!’
Not being in full possession of my faculties at that moment, I cannot recall with complete certainty my reply, but I believe it was something to the effect of ‘Who are you and what in the Maker’s name are you doing in my personal chambers?’
‘Marian Hawke,’ she said, sinking into a deep bow. ‘Of Hawke & Tethras Estates.’ She looked up hopefully. ‘I expect you’ve heard of us?’
I noticed then she was brandishing a bottle in her right hand. This, while by no means encouraging, at least put me back into familiar territory, and I managed to collect myself enough to reply.
‘Serah Hawke,’ I said. ‘Am I to understand you are here as a representative of a vineyard?’
‘Not just any vineyard,' she said, straightening up. ‘Why, Hawke & Tethras Estates is only the newest and most exciting winery in Kirkwall.’ She deposited the bottle on my desk with a grand flourish. ‘I make the wine, and my partner, Varric Tethras, writes the promotional copy. He's what in the trade parlance you might call a petite serah,' she said with a sly wink.
Ignoring her misguided attempt at humor, I took a closer look at the bottle. Through the glass I saw the liquid was a brackish amber color, with some sort of shining sediment floating in swirls at the bottom.
‘What on earth is that?’ I asked, unable to restrain my curiosity.
‘Glitterdust,’ she replied proudly. ‘Isn’t it marvelous?’ She shook it so that the particles drifted and spun through the bottle.
‘Glitterdust?’ I stammered back, aghast.
‘And to think, Varric tried to talk me out of it,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘You know, for a writer he can be dreadfully unimaginative sometimes.’
‘I’m afraid you really ought to have listened to your partner,’ I said, running a hand over my brow.
‘Business partner,’ she corrected hastily, and rather unnecessarily, in my opinion, ‘Absolutely nothing else there. Just two good friends running a business together. Make sure you clarify that in the review.’
Before I could inform her in no uncertain terms that there would be no review, she forged on.
‘As for the title,’ she continued, ‘I was thinking it could be something like ‘Dashing Adventurers take Wine World by Storm! ’
This was altogether too much, and I felt what little was left of my patience fray.
‘Serah Hawke,’ I said, as firmly as I could manage. ‘You have been misinformed about the nature of this publication. We do not accept unsolicited contributions, and we do not write reviews upon request. Now I’m afraid I must insist that you leave this house immediately, or I shall be forced to call for the city guards.’
‘That bad, is it,’ she said sorrowfully. ‘Ah well, forget I said anything, Rupert. I know how twitchy you writer-types get about people interfering with your work. I’m certain whatever you come up with will be just as good.’
And after once again taking up my hand most energetically, she strode over to the window, raised the sill, and stepped out into the night as lightly as a lady might step into a carriage, leaving me alone in my room with the bottle on my desk.
You understand, dear readers, it was never my intention to sample the wine. I meant to have my manservant come and dispose of it as soon as my visitor departed. But it was quite late, and after the rigors of my travels and the exuberance of my recent guest I found myself badly in need of a drink. Furthermore, I will admit that my curiosity had been sparked. One does not become a world-renowned wine critic by not drinking wine, after all. And surely it could not be so very terrible?
Alas, it was this flawed line of reasoning that led me to open the bottle, pour myself a glass, and lift it to my lips.
Those of you who are regular readers of this publication will no doubt be familiar with the fact that my patented 100 point system generally starts at 50, and ascends upwards in accordance with whatever fine qualities the wine in question possesses. However, in this case I feel I must break with tradition, as it is impossible, by even the loosest definition, to consider this execrable elixir a ‘wine’. Indeed, one may barely consider it potable. It is therefore my intention this review should stand as a warning to the general public, lest anyone else should be so foolhardy as to drink this odious concoction. To the curious and the thrill-seekers for whom it may yet hold some small attraction, I urge you in the strongest possible terms: avoid this beverage if you value your health. 0 points.”
- Ser Rupert Parker
Dragon’s Blood , 9:33 Dragon
Label: (A drawing of a woman and a dwarf drinking wine on the steps of an estate, with a crude figure of a rising dragon sketched out in red paint on the door behind them.)
Vintner’s notes: ‘Grapes, definitely grapes this time, grown on the sunny peaks of Sundermount, in a secluded field which the Dalish seemed eager for us to avoid. Shows what they know- the vines grew like things possessed! Fermented and cave-aged for three months in a nearby cavern (mostly) cleared of undead.’ -MH
Description: They say blood is thicker than water, but this wine is thicker than both. A dark, full-bodied red with a dangerous undercurrent of blackberry, this is the drink you want by your side when your own kin have turned on you, or been taken from you. A vintage to commemorate the old and celebrate the new. Drink too much of this wine and you might just start imagining all kinds of tantalizing possibilities. But keep your head on straight. This wine may not be family, but she’s the closest thing you’ve got.
Suggested pairing: Bonbons and peppermints until you are absolutely stuffed, an old family portrait, empty rooms, unanswered letters.
Accolades:
“I’m telling you, I saw something moving inside the bottle. No, I’m not drun-look there! Did you see that? Tell me you saw that!” - Lay Brother Sebastian Vael
“Good stuff, Hawke. What was that? Did you say something? Oh, do stop with that infernal whispering, it’s driving me mad.” - Isabela
“Yes. Yes, I see it now. Once I wear their flesh, their power will be mine to command… What? Why are you all staring at me like that?” - Fenris
“Well it tastes alright, but does anyone else have the sudden urge to peel off their skin and pledge themselves into the service of a demon?” - Anders
“Not only is this wine delicious, but I’ve just had the most wonderful idea on how to repair my mirror!” - Merrill
Official Review in The Wine Analyst:
“Dear Readers,
After the debacle of her last visit, I had considered my brief acquaintanceship with Marian Hawke to be definitively concluded. However, it seems I have underestimated her. For not two days ago I once again opened the door to my personal chambers to discover a familiar figure perched upon my desk.
‘Hello Rupert,’ she exclaimed. To my acute dismay, I saw she was holding another bottle at her side.
‘No,’ I said, involuntarily retreating back into the doorway. ‘Please, Serah Hawke, I have written all I care to say on the subject of your disastrous attempts at vinification-’
‘And I assure you, I’ve taken it all very much to heart,’ she said earnestly, placing one hand on her chest. ‘I’m on the right track this time, I’m sure of it.’ She took my arm and escorted me back inside. ‘Come, sit down, let’s have a drink together. You look as if you could use one.’
It was clear she would not be dissuaded. ‘Very well,’ I said, sinking into my chair.
‘Good man,’ she said, patting me on the back. And she pulled two wine glasses down off the shelf above my desk, opened the bottle, and began to pour.
I observed that the wine was quite dark in color, indeed, perhaps one of the darkest reds I’d ever seen. It had a queer viscous quality to it, as if it were not flowing so much as seeping out from a wound.
I glanced back at the label. A terrible suspicion occurred to me.
‘You haven’t actually put any dragon’s blood it in, have you?' I asked, peering warily into the glass.
‘You know, I did think about adding some in,’ she said, her eyes brightening. ‘Only I haven’t managed to find a really impressive dragon yet. Well, except for the witch, but I doubt she’d lend me any of her blood-’
‘Blood does not belong in wine. Nor do shiny rocks, rotten apples, or one’s dirty laundry. Wine,’ I said, struggling to keep myself from shouting, ‘is made from grapes.’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ she said vaguely, and I got the distinct impression that she hadn’t listened to a single word I’d just said. When I looked up at her, I saw that her eyes were frozen on an old oil painting hanging on the wall. It was one my wife had been particularly fond of, and I kept it more out of remembrance for her than any inspiring quality of its own. It was a rather commonplace still-life, featuring a simple vase of white lilies. My guest was staring at it with a fixed intensity that belied the banality of its subject matter.
‘Serah Hawke,’ I inquired. ‘Are you feeling unwell?’
She tore her eyes away, looking wildly about the room for a minute. Then she heaved a sigh, and ran a hand through her hair, the wine momentarily forgotten at her elbow.
‘Rupert,’ she said, frowning down at my desk, ‘do you have any family?’
I have a younger sister who I see at holidays, but my parents have long since passed away. And of course, my dear wife has been at rest almost five years now. As I relayed this to her, her face clouded.
‘Do you miss her?’ she asked.
‘Of course I do,’ I answered, rather taken aback by this unexpected turn in the conversation. ‘But I take solace in the fact that I was fortunate enough to spend several happy years by her side. Death cannot erase the time we had together.’
‘Yes,’ she said, closing her eyes. ‘I suppose that’s true.’
As I studied her face, it struck me she must have lost someone, and fairly recently at that, for the signs of grief were still fresh and raw on her countenance. I felt within myself a pang of sympathy for this peculiar woman, for all that she had barged into my home uninvited, at an hour when all respectable people ought to be in bed. I remembered how despondent I’d been after my own dear Jeannie had passed. And yet, that dark time would have been darker still without the support of my friends.
‘Is there someone close to you who you can speak with about this?’ I asked, as gently as I could. ‘It is hard to carry such a burden alone.’
‘There is someone,’ she said, staring at the wine bottle. She reached out and began to peel back a corner of the label. ‘But I take up far too much of his time as it is.’
At that she seemed to catch herself, and she looked back up at me, pulling a wry face. ‘But enough of this mawkishness, Rupert. I didn’t come here to weep into your shoulder.' She let go of the bottle, and picked up her glass. 'Let’s have a toast,’ she suggested, with a gleam in her eye. ‘To those we’ve lost. May they never be forgotten.’
What could I do? It would have been boorish to refuse to drink under such circumstances. With no small amount of trepidation, I raised the glass to my lips.
To my relief, the wine itself was utterly inoffensive- a passable if somewhat earthy red, with a strong gamey flavor that softened into cooler notes of blackberry on the palate. And yet, as soon as I drank it, a feeling of inescapable doom settled upon me like a cold hand on the back of my neck. The shadows in the room seemed to lengthen and twist, and I found myself shivering, though the night was quite warm.
The change in mood seemed to affect my guest as well, for after a few more pleasantries, she bade me good evening, taking her leave once again through the bedroom window. And thus, with the feeling of having made some narrow escape, I retired to my bed.
That night I suffered such hideous nightmares that even now I am loathe to describe them, lest my pen give shape and substance to the ephemeral horrors I witnessed. At one point I fancied that the skinless corpse of a long dead elf stood over me, promising me powers and riches beyond measure if only I were to journey to someplace called ‘Sundermount’ and exhume its body. When I finally awoke, shuddering and drenched in sweat, I had no doubt as to the source of my troubles. I had the offending bottle removed at once, and spent the rest of the day secluded in prayer in the Chantry. Over the course of my travels, I have encountered a number of cursed and charmed spirits, but none quite so violently possessed as this fearsome vintage. While it pains me to give Hawke & Tethras yet another failing score, I cannot in good faith inflict this wine upon my readership. Should any of you be so unlucky as to encounter it, I recommend you avert your eyes and whisper a quick prayer of protection to the Maker. 50 points.”
- Ser Rupert Parker
Champion’s Chalice , 9:35 Dragon
Label: (A stylized portrait of woman and a dwarf pouring wine into a cup carved from a large horned skull.)
Vintner’s notes: 'Grown on the grassy plains adjacent to the Maharian Quarry (or as it is colloquially known, ‘the Bone Pit’), a smattering of these vines were ever so slightly singed during a run-in with some of the local fauna, undoubtedly imparting the surviving grapes with an even greater depth of flavor. After being cool-soaked for three days to salvage the remains, the fruit was then transferred to oak barrels and aged for six months in a repurposed foundry.' -MH
Description: Like a natural born brawler with an aristocratic pedigree, this wine defies expectations. A dizzy little number with a killer right-hook, this vintage isn’t afraid to get her hands dirty, but she knows how to keep her nose clean. Hell, her legs aren’t bad either. And talk about mouthfeel. She’s a looker alright, but don’t let the label fool you- underneath all that swanky Hightown polish, she’s still got enough juice to knock your lights out. Ask for it by name at the Hanged Man and get a free shot of Blight Proof.
Suggested pairing: A fancy new set of armor, a view from the top of the city, cheese that tastes of sorrow, ham that tastes of despair.
Accolades:
“Wine? Too good for ale now that she’s Champion of the city, is she? Wait, no, give it here-” -Knight-Corporal Carver Hawke
“Not bad, but I prefered your first one. In a pinch, it made for a very effective disinfectant.” -Anders
“Fine, I’ll try it. But keep your voice down. The Knight-Commander will have my head if she hears I’ve been drinking on the job.” -Knight-Captain Cullen Rutherford.
Official Review in The Wine Analyst:
“My dear Readers,
By now I imagine many of you are familiar with the name Marian Hawke, and not merely from the pages of this humble publication. Tales of her deeds as the Champion of Kirkwall have spread like wildfire throughout the cities of the Free Marches. Even here in Ostwick one may hear her spoken of with respect bordering on awe, which is in itself no small feat, for we Ostwickians never speak well of Kirkwallers if we can help it.
Late last evening I walked into to my bedroom to find the Champion herself perched atop my desk, fiddling with a buckle on her shoe. I saw immediately that she had brought another bottle with her, doubtlessly full of some horrible swill that she wished me to sample. And yet I was glad to see her again. There was something about her last visit that had endeared her to me. Furthermore, there was a particular matter which I was eager to discuss with her.
As some of you are no doubt aware, there is a certain pamphlet which has begun appearing in local shops and bookstores, purporting to have been written by me. Titled ‘The Wine Analcyst’ (sic), it features the ramblings of a pompous old fool, by turns histrionic and incoherent, forever harping on about the virtues of his ‘patented 100 nug system’. After consulting with my editor, I believe I have discovered who has been circulating these crude attempts at satire. It would appear that the true author is none other than one Varric Tethras, a deshyr native to Kirkwall, and, not coincidentally, the other half of Hawke & Tethras Estates. I have written him several letters requesting that he cease this vile and unprovoked harassment, but have as yet received no answer. Seeing his partner in my room, I hoped that I might enlist her aid in persuading him to desist.
However, her reaction was less than encouraging .
‘Has he really?’ she said, her eyes sparkling, as I described in detail the various offenses her business partner had committed against me. ‘You don’t happen to have a copy on you, by any chance?’
I could not help but feel that her amusement displayed a distinct lack of empathy for the ridicule to which I had been subjected.
‘I am sorry, Rupert,’ she said, looking somewhat chastened. ‘I don’t think he likes it when other people write about me. He considers himself my sole biographer, you know.’ She blinked thoughtfully. ‘I suppose he might even be jealous.’ She seemed quite pleased by the notion.
‘But I shouldn’t take it too seriously if I were you,’ she added, reaching down to tug again at the offending buckle. ‘If he really had it out for you, I expect he would have sent assassins by now.’
Upon further reflection, I found that perhaps I could live with his insulting imitation, which, after all, was said to be a form of flattery. I resolved to let the matter drop.
‘There,’ she said, when she had finished with her shoe. She looked up at me with a bright smile. ‘Shall I pour?’ she asked, not waiting for an answer before rising to fetch the glasses. ‘I think you’re going to be pleasantly surprised this time, Rupert,’ she called back over her shoulder.
I had hoped to distract her by inquiring about her recent appointment as Champion. But when I asked her about it, she pulled a dour face.
‘Let’s not talk about that dreary business,’ she said, uncorking the bottle. ‘I sometimes wish they’d given the job to someone else.’
‘But surely being regarded as a Champion must afford one some privileges?’ I asked, watching with growing dismay as she poured a generous amount of wine into each glass.
‘Oh, it’s not so different,’ she said, shrugging. ‘More people stare at you in the street. Nobles expect you to run errands for them. You get better service at the Rose.’
‘The Rose?’ I asked.
‘An establishment for young men and women who are down on their luck,’ she quickly clarified. ‘Dedicated to helping them get back on their feet. Or back on their backs. Whichever you prefer. I’m surprised a charitable-minded gentleman such as yourself isn’t already familiar with it.’
I admitted that it had been some time since my last trip to Kirkwall.
‘Why, you ought to come visit,’ she exclaimed. ‘There’s loads of historic architecture. I believe we have the largest and most unsettling collection of Tevinter sculptures in all of the Free Marches, if you’re interested in that sort of thing. And the view from the walls of Hightown is marvelous. On a clear day, you can see all the way across the Waking Sea.’ She hesitated, picking at a scar on her thumb. ‘Though lately I seem to have developed a fear of heights,’ she muttered, frowning. ‘I suppose that’s the trouble with coming up in the world. After a while, there’s nowhere to go but down.’
Peering down at the murky liquid within my glass, I remarked obliquely that there was at least one area in which it appeared she had plenty of room for advancement.
‘What was that,’ she said, cupping one hand to her ear. ‘It’s no use, Rupert, you must learn to stop mumbling. Now, where were we?’ And she raised her glass expectantly.
With a sigh of resignation, I raised mine as well.
It would have been a good wine, of that I am sure. Only somewhere along the way, some terrible misfortune had befallen the grapes. It tasted chiefly of soot and burnt fruit.
I managed to choke down a mouthful. ‘It is a bit smokey,’ I said, coughing into my fist.
‘Yes,’ she said, looking mournfully into her glass, ‘it does seem to have come out rather well done, doesn’t it?’
I thought it best to change the subject. ‘I expect you must have very little free time these days to devote to winemaking,’ I said, discreetly pushing my glass aside. ‘Do you intend to give it up, now that you are Champion of Kirkwall?’
‘Oh no,’ she said, sitting up. ‘I couldn’t let you down like that, Rupert. Not when we’ve come so far.’
‘Have we?’ I asked, wiping a bit of ash from the corner of my mouth.
‘What did you call the last one I brought you? 'Utterly inoffensive’? Surely that’s progress?’
‘I suppose it is, of a sort,’ I said, with an internal sigh.
‘You’ll see,’ she said, slipping down from the desk. ‘My next one will be even better. And you ought to let this one sit out a bit longer before you make up your mind. Perhaps all it needs is a chance to mellow.’
Three days later, I can confirm that this wine has not ‘mellowed’ in the slightest. However, as it has also neither caused me extreme gastric distress nor visions of long dead horrors, it might, in some slim sense, be considered a kind of progress.
I know that for some the glamour of a famous name attached to a bottle will prove too great a temptation to withstand. But I would urge you, dear readers, to resist the allure of such paltry thrills. The true measure of a wine lies in the depth of its character, the complexity of its flavor, the fecundity of its terroir- not the celebrity of its maker. 55 points.”
-Ser Rupert Parker
Sea Legs , 9:41 Dragon
Label: (A drawing of a woman leaning over the railing of a ship, a thin curl of smoke rising up into the sky far behind her.)
Vintner’s Notes: ‘Grapes grown on the verdant shores of Estwatch, fermented in old rum barrels, and aged in the ship’s hold until the captain demanded their immediate removal.’ -MH
Description: This wine really ought to stop mooning about the ship all day and help man the rigging. It’s normally quite a cheerful vintage, but it’s been a bit sour lately. In fact, it’s my opinion that this wine’s temperament and flavor would be greatly improved by a decent roll in the hay. There, have I done it right?
Suggested pairing: A tricorn hat with a feather stuck in it, an eyepatch, a very suggestive alias, a tin of pickled nug, a sack of gold plundered from a Tevinter galleon, and a letter from an old friend.
Accolades:
“It’s very good. Now get it out of my ship.” -Isabela
Official Review in The Wine Analyst:
“Dear Readers,
It has been many years since my last interview with a certain personage. In the intervening time an unpleasant notoriety has attached itself to her name- a consequence of the Kirkwall Rebellion and the terrible sequence of events that followed. Indeed, these are troubled times, as I'm sure you all well know. There is a hole in the sky, the Divine is slain, and the Chantry’s hold on mages and templars alike has been shattered, possibly forever. However, there are still those among the faithful who might feel compelled to take action upon learning the whereabouts of a powerful apostate. Thus, in the interest of discretion, let us merely say that I was recently graced by a visit from an old friend.
I found her much changed from the last time we’d spoken. There was a crooked scar running down the side of her left cheek, and she looked as though she hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks. But her blue eyes shone bright and merry as ever as she placed the bottle before me.
‘Here you are, Rupert,’ she said, pulling herself up on my desk. ‘The fruits of my labors.’
It was a clear wine, contained in what looked to be an old rum bottle. Uncorking it and breathing in the aroma, I picked up notes of beeswax, wildflowers, and the sweet heat of sugarcane.
‘I hope you enjoy it,’ she said, leaning back against the wall. ‘It may be the last one for a while.’
‘What?’ I asked, genuinely surprised. ‘Have you finally decided to give it up?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ve had news from the south,’ she said, looking pensively down at the bottle and tracing the logo with her finger. ‘Nothing good, I'm afraid. I suspect it will be a long time before I’m able to make wine again.’
‘From your partner?’ I guessed, watching her.
‘Yes,’ she said, giving me a tired smile. ‘Though we’ve been apart for so long now, I had almost stopped thinking of us as partners.’ She bit her lip, and her face took on a determined cast. ‘But he can’t come to me, so I’ll have to go to him.’
As she told me of her plans, I began to feel uneasy, for she spoke as though she were not expecting to return. But when I tried to voice my concern, she only smiled at me, and shook her head again.
‘Come on, Rupert,' she said, lifting the bottle. ‘Aren’t you going to toast with me? Who knows when we’ll see each other again.’
She filled our glasses to the brim.
She was so close this time. Only the bitter tang of salt ruined it. The barrels must have been doused with seawater before being filled. It was like drinking from the tide. All the same, I cannot find it in myself to disparage her efforts. Surely there are worse wines on the market. Perhaps there are those of you who would enjoy such a drink? If so, keep watch for this wine. And may the Maker keep watch over us all. 65 points.”
- Ser Rupert Parker
Lady Marielle , 9:44 Dragon
Label: (A dwarf sitting alone at a table with two wine glasses. The chair across from him is empty.)
Vintner’s notes: ‘Fereldan grown grapes, shipped across the Waking Sea, and barrel-aged in Kirkwall cellars.’ -VT
Description: Like a melody you keep humming under your breath, the taste of this wine lingers in your mind and on your tongue long after the bottle runs dry. It unfolds in your heart like a story, slowly pulling you deeper and deeper into its pages. The ending comes too soon, leaving you with an empty glass and a question you can’t get out of your head- what happens to the love we bear for those we’ve lost?
The truth is that it’s never really gone. It finds its way into your soul, and once it gets there, you carry it always.
Suggested pairing: Your best friend, your partner in crime, the smile you still see every time you close your eyes, the laugh you’ll be waiting to hear for the rest of your life.
Official Review in The Wine Analyst :
“Dear Readers,
It has been years since Serah Hawke last paid me a visit, yet I must confess she has often been in my thoughts. Here and there during my travels I have occasionally heard her name mentioned, usually in conjunction with the most outlandish tall tales: that she had slain all the remaining Grey Wardens in an magical explosion that consumed Weisshaupt Fortress and half the Anderfels along with it; that she had accepted a contract with the Crows to infiltrate the Orlesian Court and assassinate the Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons; that she had been hired on by the Inquisition for her services as a breeder and tamer of dragons. I told myself these stories were idle gossip, and nothing more. Alas, today I find myself wishing I could believe them, for the truth is no comfort.
Last night I entered my chambers to find an unfamiliar man sitting at my desk, casually flipping through the most recent edition of my newsletter. Alarmed, I caught up the first thing that came to hand, which happened to be a discarded umbrella. Brandishing it at him with as much ferocity as I could muster, I demanded to know who he was.
‘Easy there, Parker,’ he said, with an amused glance at my weapon of choice. 'You expecting rain?'
On closer inspection I saw that he was not a man at all, but a dwarf, with sandy hair tied back from his face, a worn rucksack sitting at his feet, and an old leather duster that he’d slung over the back of my chair. Reluctantly lowering my umbrella, I repeated my request that he state his name and business.
‘Varric Tethras,’ he said, nodding his head, but making no move to rise from my chair. ‘Rogue, storyteller, and occasionally, unwelcome houseguest.’
His name sparked my memory, and I realized with a start that I was looking at the other half of Hawke & Tethras Estates, my former satirist, and the current Viscount of Kirkwall.
‘I see,’ I said stiffly, setting down the umbrella. ‘You’ll forgive me, but I’m used to dealing with your partner.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ he said, closing the book. ‘That’s why I’m here.’ He rubbed a hand over his face, and when he spoke again his voice was low and rough. ‘She’s gone, Parker.’
‘What do you mean?’ I said, staring at him. ‘What’s happened?’
He told me.
I sat down on my bed. The room suddenly seemed very quiet.
He picked up another edition of my newsletter, and began to leaf through it.
‘I never really understood why she was so fixated on this whole winery racket,’ he said, after a long pause. ‘I thought it was just a joke, or maybe a scam to commit tax fraud. But it meant something to her, doing this.’ He shook his head, and glanced up at me. ‘Did she ever tell you how it got started?’
At my negative response, he continued.
‘We were down in the Deep Roads. She’d been gored by one of those giant horned darkspawn, same kind that killed her sister. I thought I was going to watch her bleed out right there in front of me. Anders told me to keep her talking while he did whatever the hell he could to close the artery. So I asked her what she wanted to do when she got home.’ His face softened, transformed by a rush of unguarded emotion. ‘She turned those bright blue eyes on me and said, Well, Varric, if we make it out of here alive, I think I’d like to start a winery.’
He laughed, rubbing his forehead with the heel of one hand.
‘So I told her, sure, sweetheart, I’m game. You make it, and I’ll find a way to sell it.’ He blinked down at the book, his expression haunted. ‘I’d have done anything for her.’
I watched as he turned away, returning the book to its the shelf. When he turned back to me, his face was composed once more.
‘She loved your reviews, you know,’ he said, crossing his arms over his chest. ‘Kept them all. Even insisted I include them in the promotional materials.’
‘But I gave her terrible reviews,’ I said, stricken. ‘I panned every single wine she brought me.’
He snorted. ‘She didn’t care,’ he said. ‘She grew up on a farm. She was thrilled you wrote about her at all.’
‘I don't understand,' I said. 'She was the Champion of Kirkwall. Surely there were plenty of other people, yourself included, who would have written about her. Why did she come to me?’
He was silent for a long moment. ‘I think she liked the idea of being remembered for something that had nothing to do with being the Champion of Kirkwall,’ he said at last.
He leaned over, reaching down into the bag at his feet and bringing out a glass bottle. I saw the familiar logo of Hawke & Tethras Estates stamped on the label.
‘Our last wine.’ He held it as if he were reluctant to let it go. ‘I figured she would have wanted you to have one.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, deeply moved by this gesture. ‘It would be my honor to review it, in her memory.’
An irritated look flashed across his face. ‘I didn’t come here for a rating from your damned point system.' He shook his head in disgust. ‘What does any of that bullshit have to do with wine?’
I tried to explain that my system was designed to help consumers by providing an objective scale that calculated the merits of each vintage. But this seemed to only incense him further.
‘Don’t kid yourself,’ he snapped, his eyes flashing. ‘You call yourself a writer? You’re just a glorified accountant, sitting here at your desk crunching numbers. What makes a wine special is the story behind it. The name, the taste, the fragrance. That’s what makes people fall in love, not some arbitrary number.’
At the word ‘love’, something clicked into place, and I stared at him with a new understanding.
‘Did she know?’ I asked him.
All the anger that had animated him drained away, and he sagged back in the chair. ‘I don’t know,’ he said wearily. ‘Maybe she guessed. I never said anything.’
‘Why not?’ I pressed him, spurred on by some inner compulsion.
He shot me an annoyed look, and for a second I thought he wouldn't answer. Then he sighed, and shifted forward, cradling the bottle between his hands.
‘I told myself I didn’t want to complicate things,’ he said. ‘She’d lost so much of her family already, and all of mine were long gone. We were all either of us had. I figured it wasn’t worth the risk if things went sour. But now…’ He trailed off, staring down at the wine bottle. He traced the label with his thumb. ‘I wish I’d said something,’ he finished quietly.
We sat there together in silence, and though neither of us spoke I fancied we were both caught in the same gentle current of memory, lost in contemplation of what might have been.
At last he leaned over, placing the bottle carefully on the desk. ‘It’s getting late,’ he said, nodding at the darkened window. ‘I’d better go.’
I thanked him for coming to deliver the news, and suggested, somewhat hesitantly, that he might call on me if he should ever again find himself in Ostwick. He made no reply. At the door, however, he paused, and looked back at me.
‘Tell me something, Parker,’ he said, shrugging on his coat. ‘Do you ever dream about wine?’
As it so happens, I often dream of wine, especially when I’ve been drinking rather too much of it. In fact, just the other night I had the most startling dream featuring an unlikely liaison between a bottle of Antivan red and the haunch of roast lamb my cook sent up for supper. But I didn’t want to bore him with these mundane details, so I merely answered in the affirmative.
He nodded, and for a moment I thought I saw a flicker of hope kindle in his eyes.
‘Do me a favor,’ he said, turning away. ‘Try to dream about this one.’
In accordance with Ser Tethras’s wishes, I will not subject his wine to my rating system. Without the stabilizing presence of this familiar metric, I find myself unmoored from my usual professional detachment, set adrift in a shifting sea of emotions. Or perhaps he was right- perhaps it is the stories we tell ourselves that make wine significant. For as I drank from my glass that night, I was overcome with memories; of Marian Hawke and the peculiar sadness hidden behind her smile, of missed chances and words left unspoken, and of my own lost love, Jeannie, whose sweet face I see now as clearly as if she sat here beside me, as she so often used to do. In this case, dear readers, I cannot claim to be objective. To me, this wine is a masterpiece.”
- Ser Rupert Parker
Afterword
9:57 Dragon
When I was approached to write this afterword, my first thought was to demur. After all, whole volumes have been written on the works and deeds of Varric Tethras and Marian Hawke. With so many worthy authors and scholars to choose from, it seemed ludicrous that the honor should fall to a mere wine critic.
However, there were two considerations that ultimately compelled me to accept. Firstly, it was not an account of their legacy as adventurers, but as winemakers, which is a topic on which I feel I have some small authority. Secondly, and more importantly, as I looked over the initial draft of this catalog, I realized that it was incomplete. For there is one other vintage that belongs on this list.
How I came to learn of its existence is a curious story in and of itself.
Though I never saw him again after our brief encounter, I followed the events of Viscount Tethras’ reign with great interest. I was pleased to hear of the improvements he made to Kirkwall, and of the many public works he implemented over the years. Indeed, I would even go so far as to say that our own Teyrn Archibald might benefit from following in his example. I was therefore as shocked and dismayed as any of his subjects when word arrived of his sudden disappearance. While most assumed foul play or nefarious dealings, in my heart I have always held onto another explanation, one many have been quick to dismiss as an impossibly wild theory. But as you will see, I have some reason to believe it may be true.
The month after news came of the Viscount's mysterious departure, I received a parcel by post. It contained a note from one Seneschal Bran, informing me that he had been instructed to send the enclosed item to me, and only me, and that I should take particular care with it.
The parcel held a small, irregularly shaped bottle. It was crafted of thick, green glass full of tiny bubbles that shone with an unearthly light, and it hummed with a strange vibration in my hand. Wrapped around the body of the bottle was a tattered page of notes, with the Hawke & Tethras Estates logo drawn out by hand in the uppermost corner. I have attempted to transcribe the writing below, though it is hard to make out in some places.
As for its former contents, one can only guess. The bottle was empty, yet even if it were full, I would not dare to drink from it. I feel certain that whatever elixir it once contained was not meant for me.
- Ser Rupert Parker
Last Leap , ???
Label: (a torn fragment of paper covered in notes scrawled in an unsteady hand)
Vintner’s notes- an ancient sleeper’s memory of grapes, stolen while he lay dreaming, mixed with powdered lyrium and as much blood as I could spare (Rupert says blood doesn’t belong in wine, but it will have to do if you are to find me), tempered by veilfire, and bottled in the phylactery of a lost somniari.
Varric. I can’t come to you this time. But if you like, you can come to me. One last adventure, our greatest yet. What do you say?
Only please, not too soon. I want to hear all new stories when we meet again.