"Oh, Maker, the Bog Unicorn." Korrin huffs, her warm breath clashing with the cool air. "It's shoved through the head, that's how it earned the name. Creepy thing is fucking creepy, though as far as I know it's not actually hurt anyone.

...if I get you drunk enough, think I can dare you to ride it?" Sure, he might be crazy enough to do it anyway, but incentive never hurts. And they're severely lacking for entertainment, lately.

Fidgeting more to keep warm than because she's just that restless, the Vashoth woman stares off, thoughtful. "I know you can't change castes, right? No matter what, you're born into a caste and stuck with it unless you get banished or something." And no, she doesn't sound like she cares for the idea. It seems almost Qunari to her, already deciding people's fates for them. "Which must really suck for those at the bottom. No wonder so many leave."

Why they didn't all just leave with their middle fingers raised at the paragons, Korrin doesn't know. Maybe all those ancestral ties, something she's never had, really do make a difference somehow. Or maybe it's as she said and stupid traditions are stupid and have people in a rut.