His face pinches sideways in thought. Krader. Crater? Whatever low-hanging, smart-assed remark to be made is abandoned the moment the Wardens' shout goes up. Jayce's attention snaps up to the debacle, holds for another moment like a trainwreck before sharply looking elsewhere, swallowing down a bubble of bile as the crunch of metal upon bone and flesh continues.

"Uh," he says, gratitude for the distraction a delayed observance, "it's... the complete and total opposite of this," ends with a wry, hoarse huff of laughter. Jayce reaches for his mace, starts crudely shoving bits of darkspawn off with his boot, into the sand. "Like Kirkwall, I guess. Densely packed city surrounded by water."

A Lowtown and worse snubbed by the elite and everyday person.

"But the architecture's," a grunt, that one had splintered bone, "a hundred times better. Kirkwall is so..." He glances at Lazar, brow arched. "You know, when I first got here, Viktor likened Kirkwall to oatmeal. Like old, sad oatmeal."