Growing up in Kirkwall means you grow up knowing that you live in a place that's extra. Yngvi's used to shrugging off plenty that would have some of the rest of the Boneflayers staring at him and Gunnar on long marches to wherever they were going, over pints in a tavern or round a campfire. Clomping along looking for some of the crew he'd been 'asked' (translation: told to round up and put to work thanks to that good old dwarven lyrium resistance) to get sorted, he doesn't immediately react to a shout.

Look, if you did that in Kirkwall you'd strain something. Give yourself a nervous twitch. So he listens for a while and taps his fingers along the wall as some of his nugs snuffle around because nugs literally don't give a shit, just watch, they'll crawl all over that red lyrium without batting their beady black soulless eyes.

The shouts don't stop and he knows that voice enough to make his way there even if he still hangs back a little way away to conduct some serious pocket inventory. "Serah? Some funny business going on in there?" He calls out in his most serious Kirkwall tones.