All That Glitters

There was always an argument at The Hanged Man, though rarely in dwarvish. Hawke caught the tail end as whoever was on bouncer duty gently encouraged them to leave. 

"My Orzammarian is a little rusty," she later told Varric, accepting a goblet of wine from his 'personal stash', in his rooms above. "What does n'blz mean?" 

Varric snorted. "Nothing good. And that's not Orzammarian. Pidgin Trade, at best."

Hawke raised an encouraging eyebrow. 

"It's derogatory," he sighed. "For... people who put on airs. Pretend they're nobility."

"But you are-" 

The look on his face stopped the end of that sentence.