stuck the landing

[inagutterson]

WHO: Yngvi Congealedinagutterson; open
WHAT: A glorious arrival in Skyhold
WHEN: Kingsway, whenever you'd like
WHERE: In and around Skyhold
NOTES: Yngvi probably merits his own warning but if anything comes up then I'll update it. If you'd like a custom starter, please let me know via plurk, discord or his ic/ooc contact post! Assuming prior CR is good just drop me a line here.  Starters in the comments as ever.

Comments

i; arriving in style

[inagutterson]

A few of those who listening to Yngvi's ill-fated attempts to reach Lady Gwenaëlle Vauquelin might have heard talk of nugs. Many nugs. The truth of that becomes readily apparent when Yngvi Congealedinagutterson makes his grand entrance to Skyhold (well it's more a return but he sort of trailed up after Asher last time) about a week after the message.

There are many nugs. More nugs than one dwarf has any right to. Is he trying to usurp Leliana's title as owner of the most nugs in Skyhold? Is he ushering some new sport? Possibly the latter since the team of nugs (regular pink squeaking nugs thanks very much) are lashed together. Hauling a chariot.

Okay it's a keg.

In that keg is Yngvi.

(He's a very small dwarf, it's what happens when you grow up in Darktown and don't see the sun until you're comfortably in the double digits, or that's one story he might sell you for a bargain.)

Up the mountain they come, over the bridge, out into the courtyard seeking mainly Gwenaëlle or Lex, possibly trying to reach just them on the sending crystal this time - still with a black eye - as he steps out, beaming, grand, look at the stylish elan--

Only to land flat on his face. Incredible.

Re: i; arriving in style

[sunshinethroughgrey]

Well, Bethany had been exceedingly impressed -- until the man fell on his face. Her eyes widened and she ran towards him, her expression filled with concern. "Are you all right? Are you hurt?"

She moved to offer her hand, to help him up, and to check his wounds just in case she needed to do some quick healing. Even though there was already some bruising already.

[inagutterson]

"Madam, ma'am," the words are muffled because 1. he's faceplanted in the snowy ground and 2. there's a whole cacophany of nug squeaking he needs to speak over but he continues, "part of the plan. Absolutely. Part of. The plan."

Okay he's going to right himself. Give himself as much of a dusting as he can manage as he looks up. And up a bit more before he totters back then leans super casually (again, totally planned) against the keg with an impressive shiner taking up pretty much half of his face. "I'm grand, all in a day's work."

[sunshinethroughgrey]

"Oh ... Oh Maker." Bethany stated with concern, as the dwarf finally managed to get himself upright and with ... some muck on him. She gave him a relieved smile as he leaned against the keg. A smile that fades a little with the bruise on his face.

"Well, I don't think that eye is anyone's plan, serah. Uhm, are you all right with a little magic? I could, er, at least take some of the swelling down." She gave a bright smile.

[inagutterson]

"Are you questioning Comte Vauquelin's wisdom?" All. Part of. The plan. Also even if it wasn't Yngvi's plan, he feels obliged in some sort of way to stick up for Gwenaelle's dad in the face of random strangers because only Gwenaelle and the Boneflayers get to talk shit in any sort of fashion.

But back to the moneymaker. Aka his face. Still handsome beneath the bruise, that's just making it interesting for a bit as he considers the offer, leaning over to calm the nugs. "Nug Wellington, Stroganugg, back in formation." Yes they're named after food, this is how you make sure they respect your authority. "Magic? For this? I've got a better plan. We go to the kitchens, slap a steak on there, job's a good 'un."

[rowancrowned]

Only one thing occurs to him-

When he recounts this tale to the Outsider later, he won't be believed.

It's quite an entrance, and the showman/diplomat in Thranduil is suitably impressed, approximately until the dwarf- of course it's a dwarf- tumbles head over heels. He's left with questions, namely about the nugs, and how one might train nugs, and how the nugs knew how to get here- but charity overrides it, and he makes it down the last few steps from the battlements to watch from a safe distance of perhaps two meters.

"My friend," he says, in a voice not dissimilar to one Yngvi might have heard over his crystal. "-would you like some aid?"

He has his expression quite well in hand, considering.

[inagutterson]

Only one thing for it - open invitation for him to come trundling in with all his nugs. Throw some petals down. Feed him. Make a whole show of the thing. There are plenty of nugs to put a dent in Yngvi's appetite already.

(It's a really good way to get nugs to do things by the way. Just reciting every nug-based recipe. Or potential nugstitution you can come up with.)

To be fair to Yngvi, half his face is still number from the not-so-tender attentions of one Comte Emeric Vauquelin, rattling his merry way from Orlais to Skyhold in a hollowed out keg with many spoons and the remains of brandy. And everything else wedged into the keg. All his worldly goods. Various slankets. Weapons. Clothes. Traps. Oh wow look at those traps. The seats are containers of Avvar mead but those are just for him.

"Rump Roast? You talking to me now?" Look it wouldn't be the weirdest thing for a nug to start talking okay as he wheels his head to look at the nearest nug as he peers at it but nope, Rump Roast is just nosing at the dirt. "Wait--wait wait wait."

Legs where are-- right there. Legs. Legs there you are. And up he goes. And what is this conspiracy of tall people. "M'Lady's weird elf? Announce yourself."

[rowancrowned]

He looks a mess, his belongings a mess, his nugs being in far better condition, which is good enough for Thranduil. And his gaze goes up, and up, until Thranduil's looking down and--

Wait, he knows this one. Odd name- dwarfy name, too many harsh sounds. "Thranduil. A pleasure to meet you- and Rump Roast."

(That he's become Gwenaëlle's elf is slightly enjoyable. He'll think about that later.)

"Do you require a healer?" He does look fairly roughed up- is his face supposed to be like that? Maybe that's just how dwarves are, as if the Smith simply threw clay at the wall at attached a mouth and ears, and pronounced it 'good enough'. Or maybe he's ill. Another step closer, to get a better look at Yngvi- and the nugs. Mostly the nugs.

[inagutterson]

Stroganugg, being a hardy soul who hasn't been bothered even once by Yngvi's threats, peers up at Thranduil too. Not the biggest of the nugs but the leader and if Yngvi does keep one for a lark, it'll be him. The rest he plans to just unleash upon the populace to roam free as nugs do, and if they get eaten then no one can actually prove it was Yngvi and not someone or something else. Rump Roast squeaks, Nug Wellington rolls over, takes four others with him.

Dwarves. What can you do.

"Thranduil." But Darktown tends to butcher names, and this sort of butchery renders it Frond-wheel quite cheerfully as he looks up in confusion. "Mate, this is nothing, you would not even believe what I can stand up to, it'd curl your hair. 'sides, what's a healer gonna do? Throw some halla piss at me and wiggle their fingers, charge me three silvers for the pleasure?"

(Yngvi you basically lived at the healing tents when Asher was dying, stop being an infant about this.)

ii; tavern

[inagutterson]

Ah yes, one of the natural habitats of the dwarf. At least this one has a taste for proper beer and not the swill they serve in Orzammar because anyone who thinks brewed mildew and fungus constitutes alcohol needs their head surgically extracted from their arse. Yngvi is holding court. The perch precarious.

Look he is a very small dwarf, it's a very high stool, a very big tankard plus he's put a few away already so you do the math here.

(You'd think Emeric's best brandy would've stretched a lot further than it did when he's so small but no. No it did not. And if you touch the Avvar mead he might have brought he'll hit you.)

[onlyhymns]

Cade doesn't spend a lot of time in the tavern, but what time he does spend there is occupied by watching other people have fun and trying not to be targeted by them. He never drinks alcohol and never makes a scene.
He hasn't met a lot of dwarves, and this is one of the... dwarfiest he's ever seen, not that Varric really counts. He can't help but watch Yngvi struggle with his seat, and for once feels a small relief at not being the most embarrassing person in the room.

[inagutterson]

Embarrassment? What's embarrassment other than something for lesser men and everyone else when there's an open bar and at least one Lady De Launcet swanning about the place.

"So I--" he hiccups, swinging himself back into his seat which possibly almost involves spilling beer on Cade, sorry champ, "so I say to him, that no. No I will not provide him with greased nugs for anything less than twelve sovereigns. But that's what happens when they come up from Orzammar. Need their comforts. Even if it's greased nugs. So slippery I was sliding all over."

[onlyhymns]

Perhaps Cade is a lesser man; it wouldn't surprise anyone.
He jolts when a few harmless droplets hit his leg, shooting a defensive scowl at the dwarf as he shifts his chair over to avoid a repeat incident. He's not one for clever jabs or verbal complaints, but he's still pretty good at glaring. Which he does.

[inagutterson]

"Mate," which when Yngvi shouts it just tends to sound exactly like oi m8 he can't help it, he's Darktown, do you recognise the accent Cade? "Mate c'mon. Relax. Sit yourself down, your face is gonna stick that way and what'll you do then?"

A hand slams down on the bar, then again. "Up you come, up you come."

He is entirely undeterred by glares, he's Carta and a Boneflayer, try harder.

iii; the undercroft

[inagutterson]

The second natural habitat of the dwarf. Not that Yngvi would know which end of the hammer to hold unless he was breaking your kneecaps because you owed him money (look, he'd do it cheerfully, that is absolutely a plus, service with a smile even when you're making his life inconvenient) but he does need to scope out the Undercroft for reasons. Because this is where business happens, if you happen to be Carta. And so maybe it sort of reminds him of the Young Scamp(ᴛᴍ) Years too but shut the fuck up you're not Gunnar you don't know shit about that.

Why is he here? Actually he's probably fixing his gear because yes, excuse you he is legit as they come when it comes to maintaining his stuff he's a professional. Or he's probably going to just pester you and wonder what you're up to if you were trying to get on with something in peace, I hope you don't mind crumbs getting in that, no one has briefed him on sandwich policy in the Undercroft.

(Someone has, Yngvi did not care to listen.)

[spaceswan]

For his part, Mac is completely bewildered by the process going on in the Undercroft; it's so archaic! How does anything there work? What are all these material names? Where does anything come from--OH SWEET LIGHT OF THE TRAVELER DID SOMEONE JUST SAY DRAGON ARMOR?

Without any actual income yet, Mac's mostly living off of the charitable offerings of the Inquisition, so getting any sweet armor or weapons isn't that likely, but it doesn't mean he can't watch other people make things or take note for himself, right? Those sure are fancy metals and fabrics, and he wants a bitchin' set of whatever mages wear in this place to go with his flashy new gold-coated horns.

And then he sees a dwarf and all attention zeroes in, Mac's eyes like lime-colored saucers, cheeks puffed with the barely held back exclamations of excitement he's been forced to swallow for days. He's staring, naturally, because he's got terrible manners when he's too excited to remember them. He's seen other dwarves in the keep, of course, but he's been giving everyone a wide berth while he settles in. Now, faced with the opportunity to actually talk to one--

"Are you really a dwarf-dwarf like underground and fighting orcs and goblins and things dwarf or are you a little person dwarf?"

--he could just blurt the first idiot thing that made it past his brain-mouth filter. Was that even politically correct?

"...I mean...uh...no, that's pretty much what I meant. Screw it, I'll own it."

[inagutterson]

In theory - or something that's approaching theory, the way that a student thinks that lying down on top of a textbook is somehow going to let them absorb the knowledge within is studying, like that level of theory - Yngvi is working. Being industrious. Since he's effectively meant to at least look like he's paying his own way unless the crew are off on a job where he'll be needed.

Although actually paying your own way is for chumps, that's not even lesson one if you're born Carta, you just spring out of a hole in the ground knowing that and everyone knows that. Obviously.

Or not because he peers around for whatever has roused him from where he's assembling some sort of trap that has far too many teeth even for a trap, you'd feel bad for whatever ended up in that trap even if it was the draconic lovechild of a Venatori and a Red Templar that did it next to a rift.

And he just blinks. Parses. What bit does he correct first, ah yes, got it.

"You mean 'person with more charm, swagger, and ferocity than most in a small vessel'." Because definitions are important and wow that was some good off-the-cuff nonsense, Yngvi remember that. (Why is his brother not here to take a memo for him. And to punch him in the arm. And not take the memo.) And hello, here is someone with even less of a filter. In that there is none. Not even the concept of a filter.

"The fuck is an orc or a goblin? Or d'you mean gobbling? Because I've vanquished many impressive meals, including, but not limited to, an entire boar."

[spaceswan]

This is a real dwarf.

This is a real dwarf.

"Yes. Precisely that. Charm and swagger and ferocity and small and eats and lot and you're a real dwarf. This is the best week ever," Mac sighs, smiling in an awkwardly fluttery manner and clutching a bit of fabric to his chest - at least until one of the workers in the Undercroft reaches in and slowly tugs it away, giving the Guardian a look that speaks volumes about how weird he's behaving. Not that he notices, being on cloud nine.

"Um...orc or...you know, nevermind. Forget that part. I don't know what's around here all that much. Darkspawn and demons and something Templars that aren't protecting old cups...I don't know. Sorry, hold on," he pauses, looking at both hands a moment to check for smudges before thrusting one forward.

"I'm Mac, and I think dwarves are awesome. By proxy you're awesome until proven otherwise. Also, please let me see you eat a whole boar, because that's probably on my bucket list of things to do before dying in a fantasy-dark-ages-magic-no-way world."

iv; exploring skyhold

[inagutterson]

Previous experiences in Skyhold were limited to the following: that one time Asher almost died, fetching and carrying for Asher whilst getting up to mischief Melisende threatened to punt him off a mountain for, the minor bear incident with Gunnar in Lady Gwenaëlle Vauquelin's rooms that one time, and then Asher dying.

So he's never gotten the grand tour. Which is why he's going for a proper nosy this time. Touching all the things. Having a good rummage about. After all this was the dwarf who stole all the silverware from Comte Emeric Vauquelin but still stopped to try on a gown because he liked the colour.

There's always a reason for him being somewhere. Most especially if it's the last place he should be. Like private quarters. There is a perfectly logical and legitimate reason for him to be here, allow him to spin you the three hour long gripping yarn he's going to invent all about it.

[thetyrant]

Logan closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose, looking deeply pained. He'd only been listening to this tale for two minutes, and already he was getting a headache. His shard was aching badly and the Crawler's voice was especially loud today and he was just so not in the mood for this.

"Stop," he said finally, cutting Yngvi off with a firm gesture, all the authority of a monarch behind it. "Just put back whatever you stole." Despite being a king where he was from, he had precious little here; he didn't want to lose any of it to some very small annoying creature.

[inagutterson]

"You what?" Allow him a couple of moments for his small brain to gallop up to wherever his mouth is at. It's a journey. A long one. On a really short fat pony with wee stubby fat pony legs. Almost-- almost-- There we are. "Are you accusing me of being a thief? Do I look like a duster?"

Why yes, Yngvi does manage to sound outraged, as if he's some sort of person of good character which speaks well to all the older folk in the Carta that raised him honestly because this is the person that managed to message the whole of the Inquisition instead of just Gwenaelle when he was clattering around her father's estate, knicking the best brandy and the silverware, and trying on her dresses.

(As you do.)

"This," he continues after the correct amount of pause to gather his fractured and wounded dignity, you, good sir if you can even be called a good sir and with whatever that is on your face - perhaps a lost stoat, maybe a weasel? - ought to be ashamed to call him out thus, "is an inspection, obviously."

[amygdalae]

...well this was the last thing he expected when he stepped into his tent.

He supposes he shouldn't be entirely surprised, since its not like a tent flap could be locked up like a door, but he really had to wonder if it was even worth for anybody to be in here - Bruce didn't exactly have much in the way of things, after all. Pretty much everything important was with him in his bag that he always carried on his shoulder.

Bruce watches the dwarf trying to rummage through his supply of herbs for a while longer before he very discreetly attempts to clear his throat.

[inagutterson]

Rumbled. With-- witherstalk? Outrageous what the kids get up to these days. Tut tut, and here he thought he was surronded by old ladies ready to come busting in (only obviously not since he was staying with Asher next to the shag tent from Bloomingtide onwards so he knows better.)

"Sir. Serah. Not-Madame." How do you say that Orlesian word, how does it go again… "Moos-your? Moos-your."

Turning around slowly, still holding the witherstalk that he won't be needing because look if Yngvi was going to be making any babies he would've known about it by now, seriously, he would, dwarves are not good at the making babies bit even up on the surface several generations removed from Orzammar. (It probably helps if you actually hook up with dwarf girls Yngvi and not literally anyone but dwarf girls.)

"Routine tent inspection, sanctioned by Sister Hestine. Take it up with her, I'm just doing the rounds, making sure no one has anything contraband-- Do we...have I inspected you before, Serah?" You got a shifty looking face there. Not Yngvi. Honest as a lamb is Yngvi.

[amygdalae]

The only response Bruce could do to something like that was to very politely arch up one eyebrow and do his best not to look too exasperated by all of thus. Somehow, he can't even find himself to be that all surprised. It's been a long time, but its incredibly hard to forget a character like him. Nice to see that some things don't change even with all that's happened.

"We don't have a Sister Hestine around here," he says simply, instead of answering the question that hangs in the air, then glances over to the witherstalk in his hand. "You can keep that if you want... Buttersum, was it?"

v; wildcard

[inagutterson]

[Dare you take the wildcard with this small pain in the arse? Pick your poison if you want something different and I'll roll with it!]