"I said git- g'wan to the kitchens, bug them for awhile." Another shove of his foot against Jayne's shoulder has the dog wandering away. The horse stays, chin hooked over Malcolm's shoulder. It's- more normal than he'd like to say. Fearsome warsteed Sasha ain't. He reaches up to pat her soft muzzle when that question wrings a chuff of laughter from him.

"Who, me? Naw." Light and drawling, more dwarven in it's sound though his height and bearing mark him far from dwarfish. "Not Orlesian at all. Just picked up bits 'round here and there. Enough people speak it roundabouts where I grew that it stuck with me."