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WHO: Krem and YOU
WHAT: Getting used to Kirkwall
WHEN: Present
WHERE: Dive bar, Gallows
NOTES: Other starters available on request, PM/PP (

relatable)!

i. Some Tavern Somewhere

Krem didn't start the brawl, he swears—when a full mug of ale goes flying past his head, though, he joins in.

There isn't an overwhelming number of people keen on throwing hands with the guy in a full set of armor, but he still trades a few punches here and there. When he gets the attention of someone exactly drunk enough to lack the sense to lay down after getting hit more than once, he casts about and promptly zeroes in on one of the few barstools untouched by the chaos. He starts reaching for it even while asking whoever is standing closest: "Can I borrow this?"

Without waiting for an answer, he swings it like a bat right into the chest of the man charging towards them, sending him toppling over a table and into a messy pile of limbs on the floor. Krem has the gall to look surprised that the poor, innocent barstool survived its brief stint as a weapon, but he recovers enough to flash his most charming smile as he hands it back. "Thanks. Buy you a drink?"

ii. Indistinctly, the Gallows

On one of the rare occasions that Krem can be spotted outside of his armor, he is perched in one of the Gallows' common areas, stitching a patchwork of spare fabric pieces up into a stuffed nug. He's got on a pair of well worn trousers and a loose tunic with no sleeves on it so he can show off his guns for once. Look, he works hard, let him have this.

At anyone wandering close enough who doesn't look impossibly busy, he brandishes two scraps of cloth: one green, one brown. "This one or this one? For the wings."

Very important, please assist.

iii. On a Good Day for a Morning

Krem spends a considerable amount of time in the training yard, doing what looks like soldier's drills. He tends to be there right at the crack of dawn, because he is one of those crazy people who is actually productive in the morning, with a practice sword and shield and a slightly winded grin for anyone who looks ready to join.

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Six doesn't spend much time outside of her armour herself; it feels more comfortable, being dressed up and wearing something familiar, something that grants her additional protection. Being aware that she doesn't necessarily need it doesn't make her feel better; the risk of attack in Kirkwall might be lower, but it is not impossible. With her sword at her side and her clothes light, Six appears more relaxed than people might expect from her.

She's a little surprised to be spoken to, but she doesn't hesitate for too long, glancing between the scraps before she breathes out.

"The green, I think."

Krem gives an easy smile, and tosses the brown scrap back into his pile. "Thanks."

Then he looks at her more closely since she has stopped to interact with him, and he blinks. "I've seen you in the training yard," he says it like a statement but it's really more of a guess. There's a certain transformative nature to wearing armor after all, which is why he's so rarely out of his own... but even though he's only been down in Kirkwall for about a week and she's in something casual, Six still cuts a Very distinctive figure.

"Of course."

This isn't something that Six was ever particularly adept at. She might be able to sew a patch on a shirt - money was never certain and she disliked the idea of relying on the kindness of strangers - but making something from scraps of fabric and thread was a little out of her depth. Moving closer, she hesitates for a moment before she settles down and tries to make herself comfortable, tucking her sword to one side so she can sit properly.

"I spend a lot of my time in the Gallows. Training." As if there is a need for the clarification. "My name is Six."

Six is a rather odd name, but after long enough as a mercenary, it barely gives Krem pause. He knows a Skinner, after all. And a Grim. And The Iron Bull, come to think of it, but Qunari are strange about names all the time according to the chief, regardless of occupation.

So he sticks his needle into the little nug's unfinished behind (sorry, nug) freeing up a hand to reach over and offer it for a shake. "Cremisius Aclassi," he offers in reply, "Krem if it's easier." He knows it is for a lot of people down South. Though, with rifts, accent alone is hardly an indicator of where anyone is actually from or what they might be comfortable pronouncing. Curiously: "Were you army?"

Most people comment on her name; she's more than used to it, especially knowing that it's one she has chosen and not one she was necessarily given. The fact that people in Thedas are more able to accept the strangeness of her and her name makes her more comfortable here, even if it's not her home. It'll never truly be home, but it's so akin to it that she cannot ignore how comfortable she feels.

Leaning over, she takes the hand to shake it.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Cremisius." She doesn't quite stumble over the name; she's used to people with Draconic names, with elven names, with Dwarven names. This one doesn't make her hiccup, even if she smiles and accepts the rest. "Krem." Her hand falls away and she breathes out gently. "I was a mercenary for seven years, not army. Are you?"

"A long time ago," his handshake is firm, and when he drops it he leans back with a wry smile. "I've been a mercenary for longer than I ever was a soldier." Some habits die hard, though, like the drills he tends to do in the yard, and the hour at which he does them.

But that explains it either way: she seemed like a professional in the yard, and she is. He idly starts folding the green fabric that he's going to make into the wings.

"Your company got a name?" Maybe he's heard of them, he assumes. Bull's Chargers have fairly favorable connections with plenty of mercenary companies running around in Thedas, because it pays to be on good terms with your competition.

"I was a member of a group called the Sirocco. It is not native to Thedas, so I do not imagine it to be a name that you might recognise." Six can admit that easily enough; her nature as a Rifter is not something she is attempting to hide particularly, but most people do not dare to look at her hand and make sure. She could fit in, given her nature, given her strength, given her determination. She could have been born here.

Shaking her head, Six faces forward, lips turning into a frown. She's not sure if someone will look upon her fondly or not for what she is - if they will judge her for being a Rifter, if they will accept her, if they will hate her. She can never know, and she feels as though it is a risk she is becoming unwilling to take.

Lifting her hand, she touches the medallion she wears around her neck, eyes soft.

"I left the mercenaries to become a Paladin. I was chosen by my God, Sarenrae, and I was gifted with power in return for my Oath. I do not have those powers here, as she does not exist in this realm, but I remember her all the same."

"You're a Rifter?" he certainly looks surprised, and his eyes do flick to the hand she lifts to touch her medallion and not the necklace itself, but not in an unpleasant way. Krem is, by nature, a terribly accepting guy. Almost unreasonably chill, most might say. But you don't run around with a group made up entirely of society's castoffs like the Bull's Chargers for years and years without realizing that all of the shit things that people say about the sorts of folks they've never even met are generally not true and are also not necessarily bad even if they are.

He doesn't know many Rifters yet, and he doesn't know any well, but honestly they just sorta seem like... people. You know, like everyone else. Also there's the fact that with the spot of green magic in their hands, they're the only ones who can close up the holes in the sky. Anyone who wants to chase them down with fire and pitchforks instead of asking them for help has to be an absolute idiot, as far as Krem is concerned.

That said, he is yanked out of the moment by the next bit. "Chosen?" There's not anything like Paladins here in Thedas, really. "Like the Herald?" That had been the story, right? Fell out of the fade, Andraste's chosen, etc. Not that it did her much good in the end.

"I am. I have been in Thedas for almost a year now." Absently, Six wonders if Adalia would have met the year mark if she was still present, if she had not been returned to wherever it is that Rifters go when they are taken from this world. Her eyes flick over his features for a moment, wondering about his reaction, but she sees no reason to reach for her sword just yet - most people do not think of Rifters as the demons their Chantries imagine them to be and Six is thankful for that.

What does make her hand slip away is the rest, and she feels her eyes widening before she shakes her head. She knows her story sounds fantastical - a God, coming to you and speaking to you, offering you power in return for faith and an Oath, but it is not entirely unique in her world. There are many Paladins, many Clerics, all of whom are devoted to a God, chosen or otherwise.

"Not like the Herald. There are many Paladins in my world, those who devote themselves to a God and are given powers and blessings in return for that devotion. Sarenrae spoke to me in my dreams and was the chosen God of my mentor when he was training me. I am blessed to have been seen as worthy a follower for her."

Beleth has been ignoring the bar fight with the stubborn calm of someone who is used to delicately avoiding the chaos of flying limbs and other assorted weaponry. It would look bad if she got herself involved, and she's not particularly keen on the idea of trying to sneak past the offices of the other division leaders with a black eye.

But she can certainly watch, and that's exactly what she does, sipping from her tankard of dubious alcohol and ducking whatever flies her way. Then, someone asks to borrow the stool near her, and she opens her mouth to reply, only to close it when the barstool is commandeered anyway. Electing to let it go, Beleth instead simply takes a final, long drink of her tankard, watching the bar stool briefly enjoy the thrilling life of a battering ram.

When the stool is returned to her in more or less working condition, she raises a single eyebrow as she accepts it, an amused smile dancing across her lips.

"I think you owe a drink to the stool, not me, but I certainly won't turn one down." A moment passes as she examines the pile of irate and drunk bodies Krem has contributed to, sprawled out on the bar floor. "I didn’t realize bar fighting could be an expertise."

Krem laughs, leaning over the bar where the bartender is waiting out the chaos behind cover with the world's grumpiest look on his face. "Two of whatever she's having," he orders pleasantly, handing over enough coin to cover about four times what it is actually worth to forestall any refusal that might have been coming otherwise.

That gets a pair of mugs in his hands quick enough, even as the rest of the bar fight sputters out a touch anticlimactically around them. Handing Beleth one of the tankards, he spends a second still fully amused by the mental image of Bull using his sneakily silver tongue to finesse even more of the Chargers' already hefty fee out of the Inquisition just so they can bum around in bars, brawling.

"More of a passion than a career, unfortunately. Think I might have missed my calling." Krem takes a sip of the ale to punctuate his joke, but thoroughly ruins the delivery by making a face. "Oh, that's foul. You're a brave one." He doesn't actually look mad about it though, considering that he goes back for another mouthful immediately after.

"Never too late to follow your dreams." Beleth replies cheerfully, while watching the exchange of money take place. She accepts the tankard offered, watching with an amused look at the visual disapproval on his face when he tries it--not that she can really blame him.

"I believe it's the best they have to offer," Which is probably a lie, but who can really tell, when it's all probably been scrapped off the floor and put back into a barrel at the end of the day? "But it's what's available, and I can't spend every night stuck up in a tower." And getting drinks in Hightown as a Dalish can be tricky, but that's not a path worth going down.

"But--Thank you for the drink." She starts to hold out a hand, pauses in thought, then quickly wipes the hand on her pants, before offering it again. No telling what kinds of grime is on anything in this place. "Beleth Ashara."

Oh! That's a name he's actually aware of. Krem does her the courtesy of also wiping his own palms off so as not to infect her with whatever lurks around the surfaces or indeed faces of this bar and its patrons, before reaching up and giving her hand a firm shake. "Cremisius Aclassi," he returns. "I'm with Bull's Chargers Mercenary company." He leans back, elbows on the counter, mug full of terrible ale in one hand, and considers her openly. "You're scoutmaster, right?"

He reads literally every Inquisition report that they release to him, as a part of the contracts they took up way back in Haven, so that he can figure out where the Chargers can be sent to help the organization out best. Through those, and since showing up about a week ago, he is familiar enough with the names if not actually the faces of its arm here in Kirkwall.

Beleth can't help but look quite pleased that her name is already known to him—It had not been long ago that she was beneath the notice of most of the Inquisition. Perhaps, at best, known for being one of the few Dalish wandering around. To be acknowledged through her own position, that she had earned herself, was incredibly gratifying.

But it would probably be a bit egotistical to say that.

Instead, she smiles, returning the shake, then gives a quick nod. "Yes, that's me. I've heard of the Bull's Chargers before—nothing but good things, I assure you. Though none mentioned your prestigious bar fighting skills, I'll have to note that one down." That's a joke, probably.

"I'm glad that you've been sent here. Besides the bar fighting. Ever since we lost that last major battle, things have been..." She trails off as she searches for an appropriate word. But there are few that can truly capture the atmosphere currently in the Gallows, so she settles for waving her hand vaguely and making a face. "In any case, more help is always appreciated."

Krem chuckles, returning to his drink. He wonders if he'll get an addendum to whatever file they've got on him for bar-fighting competence. Nothing would delight him more.

But he sobers some, then. Skyhold hadn't been a cheery place either afterwards, but it is different when it's an isolated mountaintop populated only by other Inquisition members and allies, rather than an outpost smack in the middle of one of the Marches' city-sates. Full of... the kind of people that Kirkwall is filled with—no offense, Kirkwall (slight offense, Kirkwall.)

"By all means," he makes at least an effort to sound more professional than he had a minute before he'd realized that he was talking to the head scout, "if you have anything specific you could use the Chargers' help for, let me know. I look through all the reports, but I'm sure you've got the better idea of what is needed, where."

There aren't, broadly speaking, many benefits to being a dwarf in the Inquisition since it's mostly made up of people all taller than you, shoutier than you, and far more able with the magic thing than you. Which boils down to unless you shout too (and get up on a box - a succession of boxes) people mostly ignore you. Pat you on the head maybe. Isn't the dwarf funny.

So Yngvi doesn't immediately realise he's being addressed until there's no one else around, something alarming close to the face area that he has to blink at as a nug in the pocket peers out. Black eyes blink. Unknowingly. Too knowingly. Never can tell with nugs can you?

"Depends on the wings, don't it?" This is not his area, where is his lady who has had to tell him his colours before? Relax, you've got this, humans are always strange. "Brown well that's all traditional ain't it but you get fancy flying things places looking like some Orlesian party riot, might be fun."

Krem blinks when he spots the little nug poking out of the dwarf's pocket, and then breaks out into an even broader grin than he'd been wearing in the first place. They're such cute little blighters, with the beady eyes and the snuffly nose and the creepy little finger-toes. He loves them.

Still what are the odds? A guy carrying a nug to consult on his soon-to-be-winged nug: a coincidence? Fate? It doesn't matter, clearly Yngvi can be trusted with the important decisions here, since having one makes him the expert in this situation. How not?

Krem holds up his own nug to show what he'd been asking for: it is slightly flat because he hasn't put the stuffing in it yet, and being made from otherwise useless fabric scraps rather than a nice light pink it is already a Orlesian party riot color-wise. And like... okay sure maybe nugs don't traditionally have wings, but, "Heard a bunch of the rich ladies down there keep them as pets, maybe green wings are fashionable." He sounds like he's leaning in that direction now instead of the brown.

The nug (Yngvi can't remember which one, he's thinking Stroganugg for the boldness) peers further, a dwarven hand to keep it from tipping itself out and onto the ground. Might not be the longest drop but who'd fancy it?

"I keep a bunch of nugs." Yngvi be cool. Be cool about this. You are a lad after all, you've been doing this all your life. (Time to ruin it.) Because he the says, softly, at first, "I'm a rich lady, you go off for a few months and they upgrade you, amazing. Rifters are probably going to be the in thing, there's enough of them about with their hands, it'll be all the rage."

Orlesians with hands painted up Fade green, trying to find something that doesn't smudge and also doesn't stain, he can see it all now.

But back to the nug at hand, peering at it with an interested air because what people get up to in their spare time is always worth it - some folk knit that he'd never haved credited after all, he owns the lumpy jumper to prove it - and looks up. Steps back just enough to not have to crane his neck in that awkward way dwarves do when humans are involved, nothing personal you're all just tall that way. "Bet Grey Wardens'd be for it too, you could say it's some extinct battle nuggiffon. Who can say what they get up to."

The mental image alone startles a laugh out of Krem, who has spent the majority of his mercenary career taking jobs from ridiculous Orlesian nobles (and ridiculous Nevarran nobles, to be fair, but that's something else entirely.) It seems completely probable, now that Yngvi says it. "Don't give them ideas," he insists. "Or yourself, of course." Since he's been upgraded as punishment for his absence, and all.

Krem holds out the nug to present it when Yngvi starts eyeing it specifically, since he has stepped farther away so as not to crane his neck so badly. Having worked alongside the Chargers' own dwarven explosives expert for so many years now, he gets it. (Also, as someone employed by what he honestly hopes is the world's tallest Qunari because if not how big can those bastards get, he gets it.)

"Can you imagine the sounds they'd make, trampling darkspawn?" Let alone the idea of one of them being large enough for your average Grey Warden to ride... terrifying. "Does that one have a name?" He gestures towards Yngvi's little in-coat passenger.

Well it's going to make for an interesting letter once he knows the crew is in Orlais: hot Orlesian trends, need the inside scoop for a betting pool I'm not starting, I'll cut you in. "Best thing about being the one here to represent everyone? I'm not there to see whatever thing they're coming up with. Not the spines and quills where you had to stop yourself from launching an axe at some quillback coming for you oh wait it's the dowager's husband or the whole chartreuse taffeta and and mauve lace thing they did."

Credit to the doglords where credit is due: they saw their muddy country, they saw their dogs, they took that whole theme and just ran with it. They're not the biggest eyesore in the room at any given moment, just the drab one you mistake for a couch and trip over.

"If I could have nightmares I think I'd have one." He can only stare because that hadn't entered his head until now: of course they'd make noise, maybe something like a seagull? (Kirkwall has too many, the first and worst bird to be known but respected for the boldness of their thievery.) Yngvi examines the nug though and he might as well trade as he hoists out his own living, breathing one that doesn't protest, happy to be handled, at peace with the proceedings. "Pretty sure this one is Stroganugg, they're fondest of hitching a ride places, seeing all there is to see y'know? Rump Roast might've made an attempt at an ear nibble on a likeness."

Krem winces openly. "I remember that. Did a lot of jobs in those parts." Listen: work in Orlais was plentiful, and the pay was always good, and the tavern drink was on average much better than around here... but Orlesians, man. Orlesians.

If any one population can make Tevinter seem almost reserved by comparison, something has gone terribly wrong.

And oh, Maker, those names. Apparently if Iron Bull ever makes it down to Kirkwall to join them, Krem will need to keep his boss and this guy far away from each other at all costs. There would be too many puns in one place, undoubtedly, and he'd just have to die.

He reaches out to the nug held aloft, with admittedly a bit of a dopey smile. Look at it!!! Just look at it. The tiny, blank, nothing eyes. The giant, cavernous ears. The total non-reaction to being shown off like it doesn't even give a hoot: he's perfect. Krem doesn't coo at it or anything, because he is a man of dignity and poise (don't laugh), but it's a close thing.

"How many have you got?" He said a bunch... "You ever race them?"

"Once all this," he waves a hand to encompass oh you know the hole in the sky, the war off somewhere unseen, the great and terrible everything usually above mercenary paygrades when it comes to the thick of it, "is tidied up that'll be all that's on the board. Nothing but Orlais and all the pastries, tiny cakes and onion soup you can sup on."

Unless Antiva finally show up late given someone murdered the bulk of the Crows, might be a change of pace.

Yngvi grins happily since Stroganugg is content and being regarded as a nug of such standing should: with respect or awe or both because he's never been quite sure of the difference being from Kirkwall as he is. Handfeet wriggle but that's nugs. Tamed nugs. Only with the sense to get away from the four-legged hugry things people insist on toting about the Gallows most days.

"Twenty." Casual. Oh yeah everyone has twenty nugs living in their Inquisition quarters with them. "They're more lugs of leisure, roaming where they will, playing Diamondback. Did pull me and a chariot from Orlais and up the Frostbacks though."

(Keg. It's a keg.)

Misao still doesn't see the point in wearing the Inquisition scout uniform if she doesn't have to, but she has managed to get a practice sword chopped down to a length more comfortable for her size. That it happens to be roughly the dimensions of a Japanese sword she's more familiar with -- a sword designed for a one-handed swing -- is surely just a coincidence.

She'd at least found a pair of heavy leather gloves, with a few studs on the knuckles, and she's wearing those now.

Misao hops lightly down from a crate in the corner and approaches the soldier. She watches his cuts with his practice sword closely, but she's even more curious about the shield. He seems to be willing to use it both as a blade-catch and to punch people with. It's a philosophy she doesn't think she's seen before, though she's heard Okinawans do something very like it, and she's eager to see if it can be dodged.

"Have some time for a spar?"

Edited (*kicks enter key*) 2019-02-12 18:46 (UTC)

Krem noticed the woman watching, at least after a time, but was content not to say anything until approached. Sometimes people are just curious! And he's not exactly quiet (it isn't easy to be, in a suit of armor) so when she finally hops off her crate perch he welcomes the opportunity to catch his breath.

"A spar?" He looks surprised. And sweaty. (Sorry, Misao.) He scrutinizes her casually (maker, she's short), thinking on all the faces that had been hustled into quarantine after the Rift had been closed, though the fact that she is wearing gloves makes it impossible to double check for the anchor shard in one palm. He's fairly certain, even so.

"I can make time," he sounds agreeable, and frankly, intrigued: it is always interesting to see what other people can bring to the table. A mercenary doesn't last long if he's not willing to observe and adapt to all manner of different skills and styles, after all. "No shields, then?"

Because a long-sword vs a short-sword is not impossible odds, but adding a shield to the former and not to the latter stacks the deck considerably.

He looks so surprised! Misao wonders if he didn't expect her to want a spar because he'd expected her to want lessons or if it's because she's short. Either is probably a good explanation -- she's a little more at risk in any close quarters fight, and she probably ought to at least learn how the people around her fight, if she wants to figure out how to counter it.

At his question, she smiles. "Actually, I was thinking only your shield, at least at first. There's something about the way you move it -- I want to see if I can --"

She cuts herself off. Letting him know how she plans to spend their spar is a great way to spend a lot of time facedown in the dirt.

"Anyway, if you want to see how our blade styles are different, we can do that after?"

Krem laughs when she stops herself mid-sentence, appreciates the tactical sense in it, and obligingly steps a few feet away to wedge the tip of his practice sword a few inches deep into the dirt. Less likely to trip someone if it is standing upright.

"I can do that," he moves back towards her, hefting the shield up between them. "Got any rules in mind?"

Hard to get first blood if one of the weapons is a shield, and he's not interested in giving a new colleague the kind of blunt force trauma it would take to get there if it turns out she's incapable of getting around his guard with her sword. He doubts she'd be asking for this if she didn't already have some skill, of course, but he can't treat that assumption like a sure bet.

Rules? Misao blinks for a moment. She had never consciously considered rules when sparring, not really. Once, jokingly, she'd set a rule that she had to win, but otherwise, well.

"Don't... hit me in the face?" Facial bruising on a servant -- how Misao expects she'll spy -- is a good visual shortcut for either 'lazy worker' or 'woman with a bad husband.' Both of those are more memorable than she can afford to be.

She's probably making herself sound less experienced than she is. That might be an advantage.

"And go until yield." She won't be drawing first blood with a wooden practice sword. Not unless she goes for his head -- and that's a really bad idea.

Misao nods, to herself a little more than him, and steps into a ready position. She holds the sword ready at her side, rather than up en garde, but she curls her left hand into a fist and draws it near her face.

Huh... Krem nods distractedly to signal agreement with her conditions, but busies himself eyeing the raised fist. He's never seen a stance like it before: having a hand free in a fight is usually accidental—the result of losing a weapon over the course of it—otherwise most people would at least fill it with a dagger.

With a shortened blade and an empty hand... she must have something crazy up her sleeve that he doesn't even see coming, he assumes.

But rather than waste time when it's a friendly spar and there is no serious repercussion to lacking caution (except wounded pride, of course, but Krem isn't that sort of asshole really), he drops his shoulder to put its weight behind his shield and he charges at Misao. The advantage to using the shield as a solo weapon is that you're inherently playing offense and defense at the same time, and forcing someone to try and block with a blade. There is, however, the danger of being outmaneuvered, and there's no doubt that with the weight of his armor it's going to happen sooner or later.

Matthias is eating bread outside, because being inside to eat is something he's still not used to. He's not a bloody animal, and he's not backwoods or uncivilized or anything like that, it's just that four solid walls leave him with a faint claustrophobia that clusters, buzzing, behind his eyes. Even a courtyard feels freer.

Despite the early hour, this is actually his second breakfast. He's chewing as he walks, tearing off hunks of bread with his teeth instead of hacking at the loaf with a knife or anything. Intrigued by the motion at the training yard, Matthias had wandered closer some time ago, hanging back on the fringe and observing the drill as he ate.

At a particularly cool maneuver (so what if it's a drill, it can still be cool to watch), he mutters a, "Holy shit," and while it's intended to be to himself, so he can continue observing without being observed himself, the intake of breath that follows sends a mouthful of bread down the wrong part of his throat, and he has to double over as a coughing fit overtakes him.

So he's interrupted, and called attention to himself. Brilliant.

As expected, Krem glances up when the coughing starts, and he absolutely is making his way over by the time the poor kid's hacking fit is petering out. He looks mildly concerned, a touch amused, and maybe a little relieved to have an excuse for a little break.

Everything's burning, but in a good way, and he hadn't realized that it was already breakfast time. Maybe he should have, there's not many people in the yard at the moment.

He pushes his hair up and away from his face, grinning a little bit as it's fairly clear that he's not about to expire in the Gallows' courtyard of eating bread a touch too enthusiastically. "You alright, kid?" It isn't as if Matthias that much younger than Krem was when he'd enlisted in the army, or anything, but Maker's breath if looking at him in the daylight doesn't make Krem feel old now. "You here to train?"

"Hrk," Matthias says, the last of his coughing, and then, "Yeah," a little ragged. He rubs a hand over his chest, quick and self-conscious. "Uh, sorry. I mean, yeah, I'm all right. And--"

Well, he was here just to eat more breakfast. But given the opportunity... His eyes dart to the training yard, and then back to Krem.

"Yeah," he says, decisively, "I am. That's me, here to train."

There's crumbs on his shirtfront. He should have brushed them away when he was rubbing at his chest, but it's too late now; if he brushes them away, he'll call attention to them. How idiotic would he look then? When the moment to clean up comes, he'll take it. Subtly. For now, Matthias tries to stand like someone who came to the yard for training. How's that stance go? Tall, shoulders as squared as possible. He's scrawny, so it's not terribly effective.

Krem leans his shield against his shin and sheathes his sword so he can flex his wrist until the joint gives a bone-deep satisfying crack beneath his gauntlet. Ahh, that's more like it. He eyes Matthias' proud, manly stance, and to his credit, only smiles a little bit (and kindly acts like he can't see the crumbs.) Look, the kid's got spirit. That's not nothing!

Krem certainly didn't start out with the big beefy biceps he's got going on today. He was, perhaps, never quite so scrawny but hey the sky is falling down around their ears seemingly every day, nothing is impossible now!

"What's your poison? Looking to pick up a blade for backup?"

"Yeah. I was thinking the sword, maybe--'cos there's always one of them lying around the battlefield. Usually in the hand of a dead man, but--"

Eh. He shrugs, to denote how little that would fuss him. There's looting, and there's the spoils of war, and then there's just having an eye out for your own self-preservation, which is what plucking a sword off of a corpse is, really.

"I mean, I could have my own as well. Inquisition has an armory and-- whatever you'd call it where they keep the weapons."

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