faderift | OPEN | coldest comfort, safety glass

Despite sort of having been here for months - since Asher came back injured enough they thought he'd die - Yngvi doesn't really have a permanent home. Wherever he pitches his tent is good enough for him, or wherever he just casually invades. It's not stealing if you're not caught, so what if the room is left in a state, as if a small but very wild, impossibly filthy animal rampaged through it for a night stinking of cheap ale? No one can prove anything.

Maybe that's why he's watching this. Maybe that's why he's just going to invite himself to join the narrative.

"Serah, other serah" he interrupts since he's Kirkwall to the bone. "What's all this about?"

"These rooms are reserved for visiting nobility and members of state," The steward begins, backing up to plant himself defensively against the wall.

Wren looks to Yngvi. Her gaze slowly tracks to the trashed room just beyond.

"Quite." A pause, as she presses a hand over her heart in exaggerated shame. Dryly: "Please forgive our intrusion, your highness."

The poor steward presses a hand to his temple, looking a little wistfully as though he’d like to murder everyone in the room.

"Obviously that is not what I meant —"

"No, of course not. No rudeness was intended, milord." She's just ignoring him now, in favour of Yngvi.

"These rooms? " Allow him to sound at his most merchant's guild good serah, if you even are a serah, which he very much doubts, a doglord wouldn't even let you scrub out the kennel. He won't let you scrub out the kennel, not even with your face. Though, tempting. Another time, 'serah'. "Was a Harrowmount visiting recently? No manners, but that's what happens when there's bronto and gurn in the family."

Two nugs arrive on the scene. Unsurprisingly they both belong to the dwarf. (They're two of twenty but he gave up naming them after four because he was drunk and ran of out of food-based puns that went well with them.)

"Unless it was the Orlesians from Saturnalia? I said we needed wine inspections but does anyone listen to the dwarf that's familiar with the drinking habits of people such as the de Launcets? No. No they don't." Also he has no idea who this stranger is so he should probably get on that now. "And you are, Serah?"

"Knight-Lieutenant Luwenna Coupe, twenty-five years a Templar,"

Every shitlicking new recruit knows how little a lieutenant actually comes down to. But she can hope the Steward doesn't. She wouldn't be pushing this matter at all, were the stakes not quite so high.

If she has to be the sort of person she hates today, perhaps she might still do some good with it. She shifts to allow the nugs room to investigate.

"Presently representing Revered Mother Thorn of Apcher. A small honour, to be sure, when one finds themselves in vaunted company. Am I to understand these are not your personal residences?" Shocked. She's shocked, Yngvi. Back to the Steward: "I must amend the request, monsieur. It's clear that we shall each require a room."

"Perhaps," The steward’s cheeks are swelling an angry red. He strains: "The two of you might share."

Edited 2017-01-19 01:25 (UTC)

Like weeds they appear in his life, he did not saunter out of Kirkwall to set up shop again amidst more Templars yet they persisteth. This is how he'll dictate the letter of complaint to his boss, and her reply will predictably be 'tough shit, here's your pay'.

"Twenty-five years and able to string a whole sentence, not a lady to tangle with if you still want all your fingers and other bits. Oh the tales I could tell of Kirkwall, and the other ones I could sing."

By the way Yngvi singing is pretty much a goose farting in the fog so let's hope it's not going to come down to that.

Terrible isn't, the people they let in here to staff the place, someone should do something about it. Say, like a dwarf rummaging through their stuff and setting some traps. "On Chantry business. All this? Set up by the Divine? Right and Left Hands floating about somewhere? Somehow? Not entirely clear on how that works, seemed a bit grisly for the Chantry to have detached hands running about the place but sometimes they surprise you."

Only the Chantry only surprises him when it's being hypocritical but you can't just say that, especially when you're meant to be a stupid filthy dwarf best known for having too many nugs unleashed on the populace.

"I was given to understand," this is how people that talk without swearing every second word because oh how he is trying right now but they're so very close. He has to close his eyes. Compose himself. Like smug rich people do before they say very patronising things. Right before you get to feed them their teeth. "Mate," there it is, the danger zone Kirkwall Carta note, "that this Inquisition is for all. You saying I don't need space because I'm a dwarf?"

"A nobleman and a bard,"

There’s that bone-dry tone again, carrying as it does, the faint hint of a headache. Wren’s eyes linger on Yngvi, unblinking. It’s a little difficult to tell whether she’s amused or annoyed, but as the Antivans say: ¿Porque no los dos?

"No. Such a distinguished ally will require his own space. Where else would he practice?"

Hopefully nowhere nearby. Is it wrong that her first thought is Carta, when Kirkwall harbored such a wide variety of drunks and crooks?

"The Chantry is not so monolithic." The Steward forces through his teeth, stooping low to better hiss at Yngvi. "And it is not because you... That is, neither the Lady Seeker nor —"

He catches himself, before naming Leliana. The Steward is a brave man, but there are some people whose intentions it never pays to guess at, no matter how small the score. Wren swoops in for the kill.

"— The Inquisition leadership doubtless has more pressing matters than authorizing the construction of yet another set of rooms, when these presently stand empty." Or full of bottles and piss, as it were. "I will see them cleaned out. You will see them assigned. One to myself, and another to..."

She prompts Yngvi with the sweep of a hand. Name?

"Businessman. Legitimate businessman. From Kirkwall. You have heard of such things as business and business being conducted in Kirkwall; I know that Kirkwall is a big place, but we have many things that aren't just exploding Chantries and upjumped doglords and their questionable friends."

Neatly sidestepping the facts of the matter. Carta and mercenary. So what if the company is signed up with the Inquisition, you can't just say that anymore than he could turn around and give the lie (of his own free will) that he's some sort of merchant's guild scrub.

What's worse than Carta? Merchants. Because the Carta are honest about being thieves and stabbing you in the kidneys.

Today he'll go with the full name to see just how much that'll rattle some cages. "Yngvi Congealedinagutterson." Casual as you please, as if everyone has a surname as bizarre as that. As if he always introduces himself with a surname because usually he doesn't since he probably does have one but he's just Yngvi.

"You've lost me. What's a business?" It's snippy in the extreme, but it's also an admission of defeat: The Steward scribbles down Yngvi's name on his clipboard in tense little strokes. Dramatically he rips off the top page, presses it down to him. He hasn't bothered to record anything after Confealed. "I'm directing any complaints to you."

He warns, in a tone that implies deepest danger. A second sheet to Wren, and she smiles, peppy-bright. It's about as fake as it's possible for a smile to look.

"My thanks, monsieur. I'll be by for a mop later."

The Steward storms off in a final huff. Wren folds her hands neatly behind her back, expression wiped away once more as she peers down at him.

"This would be an opportune time to remove anything you do not wish me to find." You know: illegitimate children, folding knives, multiple nugs.

"I'll see that I have this forward to my boss and her partner, one's Orlesian and the other one's from Kirkwall." One is an elf and the other is elf-blooded ex-Coterie but who counts these things in a lie like this, Yngvi is just enjoying a day making problems for tall folk.

He bows deeply to the steward with enough of a flourish that it's amazing he doesn't slip in his own sarcasm, but he manages. There are plenty of other tumbles in life for him to take.

Perhaps right about now as he whips up and around to stare up at the Templar, all 'who, me?' because clearly he has done nothing and if he has then he doesn't know him. That's how this works. "Excuse me? Which one of us has a war named after them? Weren't no dwarf wars. I'm a dwarf of business." Of course that would be Stroganugg and Rump Roast galloping along to see what the fuss is about and to skid to a halt in front of a stranger. But they're brave nugs, they'll just sniff at Wren, paw her with their creepy little nug hands.

"There’s a Luwenna war? That’s a mouthful."

She stoops low to offer a hand to Rump Roast. They used to stew these things, back in winter, when better meat was scarce. Creepy buggers. With some pickled garlic and mushrooms, it's a lot easier to see the appeal.

"As a businessman, your tax records, receipts, and such sundries are surely of great — and confidential — import. A tragedy, were these clumsy hands to spill a bucket of water over them, or else mistake a coinpurse for the burn pile. But these mistakes happen. I expect such a humble dwarf as yourself too wise to fall to such folly."

Edited 2017-01-26 00:31 (UTC)

"Accounts are varied," he examines the edge of a ragged thumbnail in his best impression of Rich Poncy Orlesian Lord Number Twelve, "but then aren't they all? Sneakiest wars are the ones where no one can even agree on the name, but some people have so many of them when you start putting in titles and loyalties and whatever else you fancy into the bargain."

The nug doesn't care about Yngvi's ramblings (is used to them, and threats regarding the cooking pot too) so it just nuzzles into the hand after a good sniff. If you're a dwarf of Yngvi's stature beating a hasty retreat from Orlais with a black eye, concussion, and a hail of crossbow fire, a team of them lashed to a keg are a great team of almost-mounts.

"Everything where I come from went on fire. Twice." Right so he missed the second time but oh what a jolly time it was to be fleeing the City of Chains when the Arishok let the lads off the leash. "I keep them with my associate who right now is either up in another chunk of the Frostbacks with the Avvar part of the family that gave me my name, or she's headed Amaranthine way maybe, good time of year to be in Amaranthine. Doesn't smell just as much like dogshit and fish as it usually does though that always depends on the tide. What does it smell like where you come from?"

(There are a hundred easier ways to ask. There it literally one easier way to ask this question Yngvi but that would be dull.)

"Do you think he might have bought in quicker, if I’d told him the titles were from a Hold?"

A slight jab: She’s clearly not the only one who can drop names. She lifts the snuffling nug to inspect more closely.

Stare into its eyes. Observe the void in the hearts of all mortal creatures. And all that stuff.

Wren sighs. It seems as close to an answer as she’s going to get, and she’ll take it. Not many maneuver themselves into lasting ties across such distances, or with such fearsome associates. But she wasn't sent to dig at the Inquisition's less savoury ties, not so long as they're being clever enough to steer clear of tainted lyrium. She's under no illusions as to how her own supply lines are maintained.

"It smelled like pigshit, before the Blight. I had to go to Val Royeaux to find the fish."

"Someone that stupid? Most of them don't think Avvar know how to read but if you feel slighted enough, I can get you some goats to throw."

Most things roll off Yngvi, consequence of a Darktown childhood where you were told, in no uncertain terms, your worth at any given moment. By everyone. Even when you were making bone marrow soup with whatever you found.

By the way he can get the goats, just say the word.

"Well then!" And he brightens because you know what, you might be a Templar but congratulations, you didn't come and ruin his fair city so that's a mark in your favour. (Welcome to hell, welcome to hell!) "My sympathies because it's only fun there if you're getting paid well, and the hospitality gets worse by the year. Did you actually pick Val Royeaux? I'd only tell my boss, and she's from Halamshiral, the bit what got burned so s'not like she fuckin' loved it either."

Goats. She honestly doesn't even want to know.

"From the sound of things, those bits have expanded substantially." Though certainly not far enough to weigh out the elven losses — to say little of those servants who suffered through both affairs. "It all seemed very grand at the time. The eyes of youth."

Rump Roast gets a pat on the butt as she sets him back down.

"Did you actually pick Ferelden? It's bloody freezing here."

"And now? Got good eyes now?"

Not that he's prying for any of the reasons he might be asking.

"When we left Kirkwall," breezy, as if it wasn't a mad dash with as much as they could carry when everything was on fire, and everyone was screaming, "we moved about. But our battlemaster's family is--" And he catches himself suddenly because nearly half a year and sometimes he does genuinely forget that Asher is gone the way the truth of it just steals the breath from him, "was from there. We'd stay 'tween work. I complained, bitterly. Every doglord poured into my home and he was more Avvar than farmer, ran away from all that to make a company that took me further than most everyone here."

Good thing about Asher: all the truest bits about Asher sound like a lie even if there are plenty of far more honest witnesses than him.

"Nevarra is always fun, corpse perfume tastes better than some of the wines they'll charge you sovereigns for. Or lyrium I reckon." He can prod too.

"You'd have to tell me." Tell her she's got nice eyes, Yngvi. Go right on ahead.

"Afraid I wouldn't know Nevarra. Barely made it through Cumberland. Armed Orlesians show up, people get touchy." Particularly barbarian templars raised without proper regard for the dead. "But if you ever hanker to compare the three, try swallowing a lit match."

She expects he could test the taste of lyrium, if he cared to — dwarves owning more connections and resistance than most. From their conversation so far, he's more apt to take the match. Perhaps there's some wisdom in that.

Regardless, she's careful not to shift her expression at his slip, allows no hint of pity or sympathy to colour her tone when he speaks of Asher. Such assurances are fine things between friends, but how quickly they grate from a stranger's tongue. She didn't know the man, can't imagine what his absence might mean. It would be callous to assume more of the moment.

Better — or only easier, perhaps — to joke.

"Not a doglord, then," She offers. "But a prince among goats."

It's prompting, something of an oblique little invitation to continue, if he wishes.

Edited 2017-01-31 07:50 (UTC)

"Doubt folk could sell you blue fabric dye and say it was lyrium. You'd be wise to that. Many others wouldn't." That's how you compliment people when you come from the undercity. Also he absolutely has not done that ever, why would anyone think he has, if you ask about then the only one to say so is a mage, and an Orlesian one, so clearly a disreputable source.

"These days an Orlesian farts and people get touchy. You should go. Poke the corpses, I dare you." Probably a good way to get your head separated from your shoulders but he'd do it, find some right old respected one then run up and give it a good smack on the arse before running off. "Think I'll stick with my perfume, seen some of the things what come out of Orzammar. Look like deepstalkers they do."

So, you know, his sympathies and all that but a dwarf has go to eat or he'll end up with some apostate freezing him so someone else can carve out his kidneys probably.

Snorting, and because he isn't afraid of anything- "Look, it got him some action. Lobbed a goat at a Warden and a Nevarran death mage? Ended up spending the night in their tent. Saying that it's a valid strategy for other things, easier than all the fancy courting."

Is that not the most princely thing? (If there are proper princely things don't speak to him of them, don't shatter his illusions.)

Is it really a compliment if it's not vaguely concerning?

"For all you know, I've got a trunkful of dye right now. " The smiles widens, loose and crooked, and oddly genuine. This whole exchange, it's like being back in the barracks. Before everything got complicated. Before the Spire's shit began to reek. "But a warden and a necromancer? I may avoid goats for the rest of my days."

Not that she has anything against wardens, really. But the deepstalker might be preferable to a mortalitasi.

"Is that what the nugs are for? Goats look a bit heavy, I admit, but I could get one of these a decent range."

"Let's say you did, and let's say I had some mutually interested parties. You couldn't be persuaded to part with some dye, woman like you, doesn't need all that frippery and we know the Templar fashion choices are limited. Bit of red here, bit of purple if you ever wear that big embroidered skirt thing. Do they still wear the big skirt things?" It's been a bit since he's seen just as many of the big skirt things, he hasn't had a chance to ask about that one and the family needs intel.

He has a lot of surly older dwarves he has to report back to. Still, he'd take them and the death mage over wardens since you can't trust folk Orzammar goes about respecting and making deals with.

"Nah, it's how I got from Orlais to Skyhold. Team of twenty. Rump Roast, Nug Wellington, Stroganugg and Truffles are the heavy-hitters and the leaders of the pack. The other sixteen make up the numbers. Understudies if you like." People did indeed witness him sticking the landing when he arrived. Hint: he did not stick the landing.

She snorts. Time to try and sidestep any implication of selling her stash. On the long, long list of things that'll never happen, it's right up there next to 'check a dracolisk's teeth' and 'admit there's anything worthwhile about Anders'.

"Do you know, I had to beg off dispensation from those?" Great unwieldly things that they are. She wants a word or six with whoever designed the uniforms. Makes you look priestly, sure, as though anyone ever wanted to hear a Templar chant. "Tripped on one, during a chase. Nearly broke my fucking nose."

An admission hopefully distracting enough to keep the conversation flowing.

"Always wondered they didn't nip up the hemlines. Solve the whole problem. How in the void do you get twenty nugs going in the same direction?"

Edited 2017-02-07 09:39 (UTC)

Sometimes Yngvi surprises even himself with how ugly his laugh is but what can you do? "What do they do to you for that? Scrubbing every privy in the Circle and as many local Chantries until the Maker himself can feel your shame? Unless you managed to tackle someone. What a way to go."

Some mages are into that, don't judge them. Smuggling letters for them in Kirkwall was boring as hell okay, you had to amuse yourself somehow and reading the letters was a) part of the job because you never know what you'll find and b) a way to stave off the boredom of 'alas and woe, I am bereft in my tower with a real bed and regular meals provided to me for no charge'. Mages. Also Templars but Templars at least bought things more often than not.

You're alright Wren. You're alright. You will never be rid of him. Speaking of which...

He swings himself up somewhat proudly, scoops a nug right up to his face to admire the frankly hideous visage that no longer seems so terrified of him as it was before he answers. "How do you get anything going? Threats. Said I'd start eating them if they didn't get themselves moving. People race them anyway - get one going in a direction, rest of them all go because they're smart enough to realise 'shit, time to go' but not smart enough to scatter." That's good dwarven instinct there. Scattering. Invented by them. He'll fight anyone that says otherwise.

"He looked back and ran into a vegetable cart. Startled himself into setting it on fire — street smelled like burning leeks for a month. Not our finest moment."

Because they've had so many of those lately.

"Suffice to say, Val Royeaux has many shrines." And all of them have floors that need mopping. Ah, to be young again.

"They sound easy enough to move, then. Perhaps more difficult to stop." The nugs, that is, not the shrines. Though she supposes that someone more inclined could make a pithy comment about that. "I have heard rumours of some giant, horned breed. Fabulously rare."

She's also heard that Qun's really not so bad, and that if you say 'Meredith Stannard' into a dark mirror three times, she'll appear to tell you off. So she's a little dubious.

"Valid strategy is valid strategy, you should go submit that one to the higher-ups here. Bet it's smarter than some of the other shit like making nice to ponces."

There's too much nonsense going on, everyone just needs to get back to basics. Old school. Just really go for it and see what actually gets done when you rely on instinct instead of fretting about the silverware.

"There's a trick. We only know it up on the surface, surface born only because Orzammar just pollutes you something rotten and that's nothing against the casteless because that's not their fault they got a raw deal but the rest of them? Toss 'em all on the midden I say." Orzammar if you've got your people listening he's putting you on blast, run back and tell Bhelen that the surfacers still hate you thanks. "Oh those things? They got some a while back, in the stables but they aren't what they're cracked up to be. One farted and killed the stable boy then the dracolisks tore out his liver. Tragic."

How handy that Yngvi is spreading the belief of Gallows statues-that-walked-that-one night worship amongst the Kirkwall masses then, what is it with these Kirkwall fringe beliefs eh?

She lifts one eyebrow, careful to otherwise school her face into impassivity.

"So they're already combat-trained," Set a match to the right nuggalope ass, and you could rival Qunari powder. If only half her job weren't making nice to ponces. "And the Dracolisks know to fetch their own rations."

"An Inquisition of many wonders."

OPEN | coldest comfort, safety glass

barracks; i apologise for this dwarf

never apologize for greatness

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