"Rey, Foie Gras. Throwing a strop 'cause letting a goose out just now might mean a pillow and dinner for someone. Behave or I'll send you to Preudame." Which is an empty threat because Wren's big dog basically looked after Yngvi for a bit but here we are.

Part of Yngvi isn't surprised, but part of humid a little sad to hear it, banking on other places maybe having more and better somehow.

"Everyone does what they do to survive," he says. Not a comfortable not a comforting thought but the truth isn't like that. So he goes to his keg chariot doubling as storage, rifling through for a fur. "Here, no sleeves or hood but you'll be plenty warm."