"Everyone's an infant about lyrium until someone's browbeating a dwarf because that dwarf has to know other dwarves that'll know how to deal with lyrium. Because why would the dwarf be offended, he's just a dwarf, and why would dwarves not want to deal with the red stuff that turns you into a screaming red spike, they're just dwarves, s'all they're good for, throw them at everything we don't want to deal with, who cares." And breathe. Breathe, Yngvi, breathe. It's not like he could say it'd be different if elves had some sort of lyrium resistance but maybe they'd pause for slightly longer because humans have this whole weird thing with elves. And mages. He doesn't know. All this is mumbled into the door and isn't exactly intelligible because Yngvi's face is partly mashed up against it since he's trusting Christine on the door front. He's just salty.
Extra salty. And he wants Asher but that's not exactly news anyway.
Louder then, for Christine's benefit as he fiddles with the lock properly, he ploughs onward. "Kirkwall had lots of explosions. Lots more after that bloody upjumped doglord decided to show up here and didn't go back to where they came from after Ferelden got sorted. I know when all that happened but Kirkwall has explosions. So. You need to make your peace with that bit. And you get used to a lot of stuff like the uncle that drinks too much and says things you'd find awful at a dinner table, the sort of awful where you'd try to slide under the table to escape? 'In my day we rode the casteless like brontos through the streets' that sort of shite." Wait, that's too specific, she won't get that properly, she's an Orlesian mage would she even know a casteless properly? "Or that but about elves. Carrying them through the high quarter. In front of everyone. Including the servants. And the merchants. Loudly. Swilling port down himself. Dripping off his moustache."
Lapsing into silence for a long time because these locks have seen some fiddling in their time either from mages who made an attempt on the other side or spirits doing something or templars jamming keys in during fits of temper or spell damage or everything that went down, it's taking a bit but he makes a noise of success when the lock finally starts to give. "Yeah that's right you little shit, one of us probably made you. Anyway, thought you were all spirit-y like Aura? Spirit friend you fart out in need? You need to go file a complaint with the authorities there, I'll send on the paperwork, we've got those forms my friend."
no subject
"Everyone's an infant about lyrium until someone's browbeating a dwarf because that dwarf has to know other dwarves that'll know how to deal with lyrium. Because why would the dwarf be offended, he's just a dwarf, and why would dwarves not want to deal with the red stuff that turns you into a screaming red spike, they're just dwarves, s'all they're good for, throw them at everything we don't want to deal with, who cares." And breathe. Breathe, Yngvi, breathe. It's not like he could say it'd be different if elves had some sort of lyrium resistance but maybe they'd pause for slightly longer because humans have this whole weird thing with elves. And mages. He doesn't know. All this is mumbled into the door and isn't exactly intelligible because Yngvi's face is partly mashed up against it since he's trusting Christine on the door front. He's just salty.
Extra salty. And he wants Asher but that's not exactly news anyway.
Louder then, for Christine's benefit as he fiddles with the lock properly, he ploughs onward. "Kirkwall had lots of explosions. Lots more after that bloody upjumped doglord decided to show up here and didn't go back to where they came from after Ferelden got sorted. I know when all that happened but Kirkwall has explosions. So. You need to make your peace with that bit. And you get used to a lot of stuff like the uncle that drinks too much and says things you'd find awful at a dinner table, the sort of awful where you'd try to slide under the table to escape? 'In my day we rode the casteless like brontos through the streets' that sort of shite." Wait, that's too specific, she won't get that properly, she's an Orlesian mage would she even know a casteless properly? "Or that but about elves. Carrying them through the high quarter. In front of everyone. Including the servants. And the merchants. Loudly. Swilling port down himself. Dripping off his moustache."
Lapsing into silence for a long time because these locks have seen some fiddling in their time either from mages who made an attempt on the other side or spirits doing something or templars jamming keys in during fits of temper or spell damage or everything that went down, it's taking a bit but he makes a noise of success when the lock finally starts to give. "Yeah that's right you little shit, one of us probably made you. Anyway, thought you were all spirit-y like Aura? Spirit friend you fart out in need? You need to go file a complaint with the authorities there, I'll send on the paperwork, we've got those forms my friend."