Those nugs are the closest thing he'll have to children, good spirited nugs that knew the surface and the sweet green grasses of freedom and a life without castes and horrors and everything going to hell. A good way to stave off the rumblings of 'Yngvi you should get married' too since look at all these mouths he must provide for, how can he provide for another on top of all that at a time like this he asks.

Loudly. Sunday dinners are a fun night at the uprooted Kirkwall Carta end of Orzammar.

"Got something that might've been steel wool for getting the worst of the rust out, there's something that might've been ale that we found is more useful as oil if you can heat it just right." What he offers is a small sealed flask with some sort of unidentifiable black goo leaking out of the top. Even sealed it's pungent. "Got a real kick to it. No need to go launching yourself, we're not that desperate when we've got big folk left."