[From the corner a goose honks. The newest addition.] That's Foie Gras. A gift. [Across the way is Preudame, Wren's not his, a head raised but back to ignoring the newcomer in the shared room as the nugs are escorted back to where they're meant to go except the ones being petted.] Not about to trust them free range out on their own without me near, people think they're sausages with legs y'know? Maybe when Foie Gras won't flap off they can guard 'em.

[No Yngvi is not going to tip a goose and figure out if it's a boy or a girl, seen the sharp bits in that beak?]

Need me for somethin'? [A little uptick in his voice, a please say no because he's not fit for public consumption at present. The stubble might tip into beard growth at this point.]