There is a truth that the only language to be spoken in Tevinter is common, the old Tevene saved for ceremonies that are older than the country itself. This is a lie, the Iron Bull finds, as he Krem and Dorian yell at each other in a creole of Common Trade and garbled Tevene. He recognises one word in four, and The Iron Bull isn’t sure whether to be worried or amused when the two ‘vints fall into a desperate, coughing, laughing fit when they both shout “Festis bei umo canavarum,” into the rafters of the tavern.