OPEN |

[krem]

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.

Comments

[filthydipper]

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]

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?"

[filthydipper]

"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.)