"If you piss on barley and it sprouts it's Saturday or Sunday. Might need to sweet talk an elf for barley, they always have barley. You can take that wisdom to the bank with you when such things open again. D'you know that dwarves really did think they'd fall into the sky? Tits." Sometimes he wonders though if that's maybe so mad because the longer he gets stuck down here, the longer he spends outside, rushing off on some errand or just taking some fresh air because he's not them, he's not like them, he's surface born and bred but it's rattling him. The fact that it's rattling him is rattling him.

Leaning back on his hands doesn't really work so he shimmies out from under the ballista to properly appraise her like he would anything else. "Reckon you could pull it off, you're a striking lass. And you can-- do that thing that you do that isn't the glowing hand thing. Just with something big. To the face. Then you kick them and say you've never been so insulted in your life, don't they know you're a paragon of Kal-Sharok, the glowing one, that you b ring light from the darkness with your deft and talented hands." Yngvi puts on his very best old man voice as if reciting from the Shaperate or some dusty old tome, fighting to keep himself from grinning until he can't help it. Then he shrugs. "If that goes to shit then you go for the old-fashioned method with your whole lifting things without touching them thing."