All Yngvi does is smile up at her, wiping away the blood that's still clinging to his mouth from chewing on the ragged edge of nail. "Or I could go ahead of everyone, cultivate it myself to prove to all the healers about that they don't know shit about the real world and real problems because they don't. How many of them lived in some great spiralling tower where it was paper cuts and falling down the stairs or catching something nasty from sneaking about? The only swamps most of them know are in books and that doesn't count, nothing counts if it's in a book unless you can use it to make money." That's advice right there, hold onto that, he got that thumped into him. Not with books. Books are valuable. How do you think meat is tenderised in the undercity? Hurled at young dwarves until you won't do in your jaw chewing it, that's how.
"Kirkwall, Korrin, Kirkwall. Not taking that risk." Not much makes Yngvi uncomfortable, and he missed the bit with the blood magic getting really wild but everyone in Kirkwall lost people then, and Yngvi knows all their names so he does. He'd prefer to skirt round that because next thing you know someone might accuse him of being an actual person, can't be having that.
Whistling a breath out through his teeth hurts in the cold, sets them on edge. Time for some warmth from the flask in one of his pockets but he's buggered if he can remember which one has the fire water in it right away. Gives him a spot of time. "Aura's got a sword now. And a shield. Sent a letter to m'lady some months back after she had an odd dream so Gjurd's training her up to be some sort of fancy warrior type - not Templar-y but it's some proper weird thing. Discipline and protecting and connected to something but she's not that far yet." He gets the flask out, fumbles it in a way that's fake but looks real, gives him more to do with his hands before he takes a swig that burns, kicks like a mule for good measure. He doesn't want to be having this conversation but it's Korrin, not Mal, Mal'd cry he reckons. And he doesn't know what his face is doing because the flask twists his reflection up and warps it something fierce. "Bronson--"
It isn't the drink that tightens his throat up and cuts the word off, he wishes it was, he's wished a lot of things that have had him whirling about more than usual in fits of temper or disappearing off entirely with nothing to do beyond the urge to scream at the sky, not words but animal sounds. "S'gone. He was an old dog, they don't last forever anyway." Look, it can't sound like he cares.
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"Kirkwall, Korrin, Kirkwall. Not taking that risk." Not much makes Yngvi uncomfortable, and he missed the bit with the blood magic getting really wild but everyone in Kirkwall lost people then, and Yngvi knows all their names so he does. He'd prefer to skirt round that because next thing you know someone might accuse him of being an actual person, can't be having that.
Whistling a breath out through his teeth hurts in the cold, sets them on edge. Time for some warmth from the flask in one of his pockets but he's buggered if he can remember which one has the fire water in it right away. Gives him a spot of time. "Aura's got a sword now. And a shield. Sent a letter to m'lady some months back after she had an odd dream so Gjurd's training her up to be some sort of fancy warrior type - not Templar-y but it's some proper weird thing. Discipline and protecting and connected to something but she's not that far yet." He gets the flask out, fumbles it in a way that's fake but looks real, gives him more to do with his hands before he takes a swig that burns, kicks like a mule for good measure. He doesn't want to be having this conversation but it's Korrin, not Mal, Mal'd cry he reckons. And he doesn't know what his face is doing because the flask twists his reflection up and warps it something fierce. "Bronson--"
It isn't the drink that tightens his throat up and cuts the word off, he wishes it was, he's wished a lot of things that have had him whirling about more than usual in fits of temper or disappearing off entirely with nothing to do beyond the urge to scream at the sky, not words but animal sounds. "S'gone. He was an old dog, they don't last forever anyway." Look, it can't sound like he cares.