WHO: Gilia St. Low & YOU! WHAT: One Girls Quest To Be Absolutely Unnoticable: The Beginning. WHEN: From [gestures] to [gestures further along] WHERE: The Gallows, Kirkwall NOTES: None forseen, save for social anxiety and occasional eldritch horror.
To-ing and fro-ing is what Yngvi knows, typically, and since he's come back it's not been too different, not really. Just ignoring everyone with their knickers in a twist over the Divine not that anyone tends to ask dwarves anything but you tell yourself you get used to it. He's got his own things to fill up the hours which are mostly trundling around Kirkwall, Lowtown, Darktown, trapmaking and various sundries.
Filling the hours.
Leaping out of his skin when he's so lost in his own head, face buried in his papers at a voice he wasn't expecting that he nearly trips, flails, sidesteps-- ah, that'd be Rump Roast.
Rump Roast heading for the--
"Mind yourself, get away from it." To the nug as if the nug is going to listen although it's not the cat because the cat would listen and ignore him out of spite. "There's more of 'em-- can you just--"
He'll help but there are nugs, there's one dwarf stuffing his papers inside his coat to assist but maybe don't roll your ankle tripping over them he is not a stout fellow.
She will not touch the sword, but she does need to be told twice - she'd never let those little pink wriggly things hurt themselves on the dreadful pieces of steel. Quick as she can, she picks up Rump Roast with both hands, bundling the little sneaky creature up into her apron, holding him into her chest.
The little thing is squeaking at its sudden abduction, but she holds as fast as she would her wayward siblings, and the second there are more of them, she's trailing about after them, trying to herd them close so she can grab them all before they went for a trip somewhere dangerous.
Once this used to be his actual 'job'. (Is it a job if you don't get paid? If they just say it's your job because they say so? Questions for the small hours and whoever he can get hold of on the crystal.) Rump Roast calms down since this is generally the ideal, to be held, to be a part-time lap creature of leisure even in less than ideal circumstances as Yngvi grabs the sword before Jambonette can get to it.
There's a look between dwarf and nug but the rest are coming to see what their comrade is doing all the way up there.
It's likely a giddy height compared to the dwarf for a nug.
"Who's got you ferrying their cheap tat?" He gives the blade a twirl as if he's some great judge, puckering up his mouth into what he thinks is a rich man's moue of distaste but in all honesty looks more like bad gas. "Thought they'd be a bit leery letting people who've come from out the sky go to-and-fro with weapons when we're all panicked about old biddies who might come thundering down on us."
When the other ones come to see what has happened to their comrade - she is dutiful to their expectations of wanting to see what their friend is up to. Dutiful to their whims, she bends at the waist, lowering her arms so that the rest could jump in to join, then picks up her squirming armful of the little creatures, making sure not one is left behind.
Then she stands, to watch her present saviour.
"I do not think they much saw me as anything other than someone who might do it without other comments." She admits that much freely, adjusting as she speaks for the little creatures squirming to try and see from their new vantage point. "And I am glad to help when everyone seems so busy."
"Quick lesson on Thedas, generally speaking," he says with the sword offered out pommel first since this has been a thing ever since he's had hands to hold anything with which in the Carta tends to be 'can you stand without tipping over' and 'can you hold that without dropping it you useless lump'. "Mostly no one is anything, to anyone. There's a whole stupid terrible hierarchy to it. Someone'll always want you to do what they think they're too good to do because they've never had to think about it before. Because they've maybe never had to think before."
The nugs, who've perhaps heard this speech before as a captive audience in the room with the dwarf, happily inspect and investigate this newest person. There are hand-feet. They do what hand-feet do: wiggle and pat the way that most people are apparently horrified by as if hands are the domain of people only.
(Forgetting that a great many people would be better off without them. Nobles. Chevaliers. Grey Wardens. He's not keeping a list or anything.)
"Don't know what anyone'd be busy with right now, arguing over some dusty old woman sitting on a dusty old throne as if any of them are any different to each other to most of us but s'pose they need new things to fight over. Or pretend to."
He's being so perfectly lovely - to tell her all these things, to help her understand - is her opinion wholly made. She does her best to listen, which is to say, what she thinks of most people at the best of times, just like the Nugs. It all seemed so complicated, different, and not what she understands, far above her head and it was no longer her business to be amidst it. So she would rather avoid it all. To pay attention to more pressing matters, like holding the nugs so they did not hurt themselves.
That, they might have odd little hand feet, but she was sure they found them very useful and she had no reason to think anything other than that, as they patted. Because once they managed to get one bit of hair loose, another bit follows. Springy, easy to get tiny claws stuck in it. But as her siblings liked to do, as much fun to pull at, to watch it bounce back into shape.
"Yes, it - " she adjusts her arms when one of the nugs seems to be keen to get under the wimple where it's wrapped under her chin. " - it does seem very important to everyone. So I would like to just help, so they might sort out the business best for themselves, as otherwise it is not my place."
The nugs press closer - new person, new smells, lofty heights after trotting along on Yngvi's errands thus far that have taken them so far as Lowtown, dipping their collective toes into Darktown too - as Yngvi gives her a look. Probably a bad judge but a pretty girl from the look of it, kind if she's offering that.
"Behave yourselves, she's not here to put up with your antics. She's not Thranduil." Who is, probably, the person with hair likely to get tangled since his lady has hers out of the way usually and wouldn't let a nug get at it. (He can't imagine it.)
"D'you got one?" Which yeah, there's no way to disguise that as being anything other than a rude question but rifters come, rifters go, some ascending to lofty heights but most don't, not really and he's curious. "A place, I mean," he clarifies as he fishes the papers out his pockets again. "I'm meant to be doing Other Powers or the bastard child no one wants since we've not had a leader in forever and scouting, research, check up on how the shady bits do, give my dwarven expertise but you know--"
And he stops, swallows carefully as he takes a breath and hopes the smile is genuine. He feels it but sometimes it's difficult to know how to do this.
"You're here. So. This is your place. Same as it's anyone's place and honestly make sure you say something 'fore someone else," mages, "puts words in your mouth."
She shakes her head, no, she had no such job, no place beyond what she had been put to use for. Or as much as she can, when one of the nugs finds the warm spot next to her neck, and she didn't want to disturb it. It was fine, that shoulder is it's now.
"I've no such place, sir. I've little to offer, you see. I've never been in a - a - " she looks around so terrible suspicious, eyes darting like she was worried, so worried, that someone might hear her like her mother and brother would loom out from a corner.
So she leans in, down to him as she bends from the waist. "A war camp." The fear is plain in those words, in that little conspiratorial whisper. "I've little skills, that which they might need. I kept my family, and my families wishes, as best I could, and attended to our household at my brother's side. I do not know what skill I might possess otherwise to be much use to anyone. So I do not mind with these tasks, it seems someone must sweep the floors and mend the boots that soldiers need to march over and with."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
no subject
Filling the hours.
Leaping out of his skin when he's so lost in his own head, face buried in his papers at a voice he wasn't expecting that he nearly trips, flails, sidesteps-- ah, that'd be Rump Roast.
Rump Roast heading for the--
"Mind yourself, get away from it." To the nug as if the nug is going to listen although it's not the cat because the cat would listen and ignore him out of spite. "There's more of 'em-- can you just--"
He'll help but there are nugs, there's one dwarf stuffing his papers inside his coat to assist but maybe don't roll your ankle tripping over them he is not a stout fellow.
no subject
She will not touch the sword, but she does need to be told twice - she'd never let those little pink wriggly things hurt themselves on the dreadful pieces of steel. Quick as she can, she picks up Rump Roast with both hands, bundling the little sneaky creature up into her apron, holding him into her chest.
The little thing is squeaking at its sudden abduction, but she holds as fast as she would her wayward siblings, and the second there are more of them, she's trailing about after them, trying to herd them close so she can grab them all before they went for a trip somewhere dangerous.
no subject
There's a look between dwarf and nug but the rest are coming to see what their comrade is doing all the way up there.
It's likely a giddy height compared to the dwarf for a nug.
"Who's got you ferrying their cheap tat?" He gives the blade a twirl as if he's some great judge, puckering up his mouth into what he thinks is a rich man's moue of distaste but in all honesty looks more like bad gas. "Thought they'd be a bit leery letting people who've come from out the sky go to-and-fro with weapons when we're all panicked about old biddies who might come thundering down on us."
no subject
Then she stands, to watch her present saviour.
"I do not think they much saw me as anything other than someone who might do it without other comments." She admits that much freely, adjusting as she speaks for the little creatures squirming to try and see from their new vantage point. "And I am glad to help when everyone seems so busy."
no subject
The nugs, who've perhaps heard this speech before as a captive audience in the room with the dwarf, happily inspect and investigate this newest person. There are hand-feet. They do what hand-feet do: wiggle and pat the way that most people are apparently horrified by as if hands are the domain of people only.
(Forgetting that a great many people would be better off without them. Nobles. Chevaliers. Grey Wardens. He's not keeping a list or anything.)
"Don't know what anyone'd be busy with right now, arguing over some dusty old woman sitting on a dusty old throne as if any of them are any different to each other to most of us but s'pose they need new things to fight over. Or pretend to."
no subject
That, they might have odd little hand feet, but she was sure they found them very useful and she had no reason to think anything other than that, as they patted. Because once they managed to get one bit of hair loose, another bit follows. Springy, easy to get tiny claws stuck in it. But as her siblings liked to do, as much fun to pull at, to watch it bounce back into shape.
"Yes, it - " she adjusts her arms when one of the nugs seems to be keen to get under the wimple where it's wrapped under her chin. " - it does seem very important to everyone. So I would like to just help, so they might sort out the business best for themselves, as otherwise it is not my place."
no subject
"Behave yourselves, she's not here to put up with your antics. She's not Thranduil." Who is, probably, the person with hair likely to get tangled since his lady has hers out of the way usually and wouldn't let a nug get at it. (He can't imagine it.)
"D'you got one?" Which yeah, there's no way to disguise that as being anything other than a rude question but rifters come, rifters go, some ascending to lofty heights but most don't, not really and he's curious. "A place, I mean," he clarifies as he fishes the papers out his pockets again. "I'm meant to be doing Other Powers or the bastard child no one wants since we've not had a leader in forever and scouting, research, check up on how the shady bits do, give my dwarven expertise but you know--"
And he stops, swallows carefully as he takes a breath and hopes the smile is genuine. He feels it but sometimes it's difficult to know how to do this.
"You're here. So. This is your place. Same as it's anyone's place and honestly make sure you say something 'fore someone else," mages, "puts words in your mouth."
no subject
"I've no such place, sir. I've little to offer, you see. I've never been in a - a - " she looks around so terrible suspicious, eyes darting like she was worried, so worried, that someone might hear her like her mother and brother would loom out from a corner.
So she leans in, down to him as she bends from the waist. "A war camp." The fear is plain in those words, in that little conspiratorial whisper. "I've little skills, that which they might need. I kept my family, and my families wishes, as best I could, and attended to our household at my brother's side. I do not know what skill I might possess otherwise to be much use to anyone. So I do not mind with these tasks, it seems someone must sweep the floors and mend the boots that soldiers need to march over and with."