"This Trade tongue," A short gesture, the requisite joke to soften it. "Une langue brute."

It's difficult to tell when Yngvi's worked up. He floods the air with words, where others hew to telling silences; leaves the listener to pick and strain for significance. But the closer they come to it, the more detail he speaks of the Boneflayers. As though some small security blanket of memory, a talisman against shade.

You know dwarves, and perhaps that's the problem.

"Anyone to be concerned of?"

Wren adjusts the strap of a gauntlet, casts an eyebrow up. Everyone, at a guess: the Carta are not known for employing the kindly and incompetent. But if he’s running interference for the Inquisition, the least they can do is try to have his back.

The rest she’s ill-equipped to handle, to do aught other than to listen. However many qunari jokes she might field, Wren’s blood is as human as it comes, and she can’t deny how badly they need the contacts.

That doesn’t mean that he needs to be alone in it.

"I’ll take first go," Best if they do this in turns, leg lengths being what they are. "If anything falls out, they'll find it on the next sweep."

Eventually. What a ghastly little trail of breadcrumbs.