Yngvi Congealedinagutterson (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
inagutterson) wrote2016-08-21 01:29 pm
inagutterson) wrote2016-08-21 01:29 pm
Entry tags:
ic/ooc: inbox/plot with/contact post
{sending crystal | notes & letters | personal visits}
Note: I work Mon-Fri and I'm basically away 11 hours a day but I do tags in gdocs and I try to do a round a night. Timezone is GMT.
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[ Wren admits. ]
How the boar tasted — for instance. You would still have the experience, just no hair in your teeth.
[ Well. She might not. Dwarven beards get serious quick. ]
There was a boy in training who would always dream of being smothered to death by geese. He was terribly concerned — Is it a demon? I am going mad? He prayed over it. Wept many pious tears. Atoned.
In the end it was solved by the confiscation of his very fancy pillow.
[ Nobility. What can you do. She mulls it over; ]
But I suppose you shall find out, if you ever wake to more nugs.
[ There is the warden from Orzammar now, she almost suggests, and abruptly thinks better of suggesting. ]
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[What dinner parties do you go to where you don't floss with part of the previous course?]
Did he do something to some geese? Have a pet one that he loved one and call Puddle de Honk then they had "duck" for dinner before he got carted off? That's how my family would do it I reckon. I'd do it to Gunnar.
[This comes after he's returned to a less alarming colour after inhaling an ill-timed swig due to laughter.]
Heard mutterings from up top about a nugfestation so I can just lob them at the ginger. I'll run out of names so you can be first on the list to name more.
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[ Not that she expects the Nightingale to object to thrown nugs — rather, that tempting her with a potential inheritance of the creatures seems a good way to mark oneself dispensible. ]
I am uncertain that I might be of help, we were never allowed to name our geese. But for you, Monsieur, I shall try,
[ She deliberates, one finger held aloft: ]
Roulade. [ For the heavy-roller. ] Andouille. [ For the dumbass. ] Sabodet — [ For the blockheaded. Look, no one stuffs sausage puns like a butcher. ]
— Ah, there is no Gunnar?
[ One must honour one's blood somehow. ]
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[Because that's what people do for unclaimed folk - burn them. Surface dwarves wouldn't get to go back below, everyone knows enough to know that bit so just. Letting you know you can just spread him out like a tasty crow buffet. Let the birdwatchers and the curious have a picnic. Make a day of it is what he's meaning.]
You had geese! [This is clearly an exciting prospect - Asher had hens, exciting because they had eggs until Yngvi learned of the care and feeding involved but geese.] Geese can kill a man, can't they? They have rows and rows of needles in their mouths. Seen them from afar.
[Wild things have the sense to steer clear of him.]
Sabodet would go well with Jambonette. I've been involved in a Roulade rumble at a pat-- poncy cake shop, why did I not think of that before? And Gunnar? He should be so lucky. Lived this long, doesn't get to be a nug for not being worth the trouble of eating during our childhood like the rest of the no-good ones.
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[ Then you roast the goose, later, and the whole thing's catered. But Maker, did he almost admit to knowing patisserie? They couldn't have that.
Other pertinent questions: Where'd that wine go? How is this bottle empty already? Wren shifts up to inspect the others upon the rack. ]
I used to tell the other children that we minced my brother up for pies. [ She hadn't started that rumour, but she'd been happy enough to spread it. It scared them more than the threat of a black eye. ] How many others were there?
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And he's slipping. Maybe he likes you Wren or is it just the cold and the damp down here causing a chill down the spine? Been a while since he's talked to folk outside of ambling around and getting in whatever their business might happen to be at the time.] Anything around named for a spring day? Or summer breeze? How does anyone taste that? Just tastes like a mashed up whatever, you can't taste hints of flowers in it unless it's the alienage wine because they only have dandelions to brew.
[Distinguished sommelier, add that to his resume.]
You seem the sort, bet you had the arms for it back then too. Working the grinder. [Human kids are so big to dwarf kids, what right do any of you have?] More than you'd think, less than you'd hope. Don't have all those Orzammar rules to worry about popping out babies but we don't do it like everyone else. Well. Don't know how Qunari do babies. It's like with frogs. There's a lot. Then less. Then a few.
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[ She hefts a bottle. Nevarran, this one; name pronounced like the sound of severe laryngitis, and not enough gnats for a summer breeze. But it'll do. She waves it back in answer.
The concept's familiar. Everywhere, there are times when the gift of a child must be weighed against the cold arithmetic of survival. That doesn't make it pretty, or just. It doesn't make it right.
Wren knows her own part in such unkindnesses. But you do what you can, it's all that you can do. To carry on over someone else's pain is no courtesy to them. ]
I am glad you've thus far escaped their wings. It should be dreadfully boring here otherwise.
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[Those same people are involved and Yngvi's face is free of tattoos so he's got it better than some as he makes an attempt at the name. His Nevarran is better than his Tevene but worse than his Orlesian. It only matters what he can understand.] Van Markhams like this one, wonder if someone relegated it down here to not offend the Pentaghast Seeker.
[Not that he cares but the most frantic deflections a dwarf half-drunk can muster at the moment as he sniffs it. Disappointingly lacking in incense. One day. One day he'll slip a special brew in there.]
Going to get that in print. Signed. Counter-signed. Carried on me at all times so that people know a Templar of good standing said a good word about me.
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[ Or better yet, don't say her name at all. She's a favour over Reed now, and a story to shock Darton if she ever need divert him — she suspects the Right Hand would be harder to distract.
As Yngvi's doing now. But she'll let it lie a moment: silence folding into the shape of something almost an agreement. There's more than one means to pluck a bird. ]
Be certain to mention my generosity and love for fellow man.
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He's met Cade. He might've put a nug on Cade. That was a whole thing.] Like she'd be speaking with me, I'd get strangled in her coattails of Seekerly justice. What a sad end to a fine life.
D'you want that engraved somewhere? You'll have to do with what I can manage, can't dream big. [It all comes back around because he's a cheeky shit but he likes you. This is clearly going to be a terrible mistake for him because of his track record with these things going tits up but it's been...lonely? Or he assumes. It's not a concept he'd been familiar with but it's the only thing he can actively think of and it's nice to have a night that's not him and the nugs or Yngvi vs the tavern floor.]
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Why not? We are in a dangerous line of work, Monsieur, [ They might drink themselves to death in this basement. There may be coattails. ] Let this fortress remember us for it.
[ No small bitterness to that thought, but it goes unvoiced in the easy smile of a moment.
Yngvi is not Arnault, is not Gervais, is no Brother — this wears neither the familiarity or formality of her few friendships. There's no advantage to this; neither of them (neither of their causes) will benefit from the association.
That makes it easier. The stakes are not so high. To let down one's guard, however slight,
It does not ask so much of her.
Wren fishes at her side, hands over a heavy knife, hilt-first. do u wanna vandalize skyhold y/y ]
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The mountains of paperwork that threaten us both, never know when someone's going to round a corner then you're buried in it, how d'you get to the Maker's bosom that way? Can't even get up and down this mountain sometimes for the bear gauntlet or people who can't set up tents without making a spider's web out of the lines. [Shoddy workmanship that is. Those are just his least preferred ways to go in Skyhold.
For the record.
So don't let him down here or at least prop him up and pose him so he looks really cool.]
Madame! Here was me thinking that sliding some of Emeric's spoons into Skyhold's cutlery was a terrible act. [Yeah let's vandalise it, obviously he's carving a tasteful nug butt.]
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[ But then her brain catches up with her ears, and her brow furrows. It’s hardly an uncommon name, and yet — ]
Emeric?
[ — And yet she is quite done trusting to coincidence, where some bloodlines are concerned. Particularly those wealthy enough to own something so frivolous as multiple spoons. ]
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[A new challenger is needed, where is our new challenger, step forth and cut your promo.]
M'lady's father. Gwenaëlle's father. [Gwenaëlle said all hushed as if it's a secret but when does he ever say her given name, when is she not m'lady or some joking title he's perphaps bestowed upon her?] Shouldn't have drunk all the brandy I could carry out of his estate either, that was the really good shit.
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[ Flatly. She buries her face in her hands, wheezes laughter. ]
The Lady Vauquelin — [ wheeze ] — the — Gigi.
[ Names not to be repeated outside this room, and yet, ]
You robbed Emeric Vauquelin, [ Her head lifts, to stare in faint wonderment at her fingers. Another bubble of laughter escapes. Alright. The excessive quantity of wine's starting to hit. ] The father of my lady. Maker.
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No one ever called her that! She sprang out into the world The Lady Vauquelin as you say, sharp-tonged, sharper-witted, smarter than anyone knows what to do with. [It's not the clumsy adoration of someone that fancies her, he's known her too long. Plus he sprawled himself out with his brother in a bear pelt in her room that one time.]
I went to check up on him. Inform him of Asher's passing when they were so close. Took his brandy. His silverware. Tried to speak to m'lady in her rooms to see if she wanted anything she didn't have and to know what shade of purple the dress I was trying on was because I looked ravishing. Then he walloped me. I escaped in my chariot. [A keg. Pulled by twenty nugs. As you do.] Might've let the whole Inquisition hear the whole thing. Including the bit where he was firing at me with a crossbow and missed. Every. Single. Shot.
Don't know why his shirt was open? I think that was my fond farewell? We'll always have the estate, I don't know.
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[ She confirms, through a feeble attempt at solemnity. It's ruined by the laughing — turned coughing — turned laughter again.
Gwen is sharp, certainly. Prickly, too. Has anyone ever known what to do with her? Wren's inclined to guess there have been successes, small things; taken together, they might show more of the girl than she wishes seen.
But they will not be. She's too skilled at separating the herd (and Maker, isn't it ever a lot of them) of would-be protectors.
Or, you know, Wren's just at the stage of drunk where she's overconfident in her assessments. Could she suplex a bear, in Hardie fashion? Certainly not. Is she presently willing to try? Questions best left unanswered. ]
His shirt was open, [ She deliberates, considers her limited knowledge of the man, ] Because he is Emeric Vauquelin. I am more shocked, Monsieur, that your gown stayed upright. Surely your bosom must have heaved with romance.
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[Says the dwarf who was the upper half of the 'bear' who went to visit her quarters, nearly knocking over the furniture that one time. And the one who would read her bulletins with his own additions to the Boneflayers when everyone was up here but this is too much.
It makes the wine come out his nose.
He doesn't know what had her so upset last year but he did spend time outside her doors guarding them, sliding a guilty letter under because he wrote to someone else saying he was worried.]
One day it's going to arrive. If I believe in the Maker and Andraste very hard they'll fill it out. Need to believe in both equally or I'll get lopsided and then it'll never stay up. [This is how bosoms work y/y?] So what you're saying is I need to go back and try again, see for myself if this really is how Emeric does things.
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[ So. There's that. Wren holds her tit a moment longer, expression briefly distant, snaps out of it and reaches down for the bottle again. Moving on. ]
Employ caution, when you return — imagine, should your courtship continue, the difficulty of adopting my lady.
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[Two. One boob and one figure. Because she was whatever the Avvar were before they were the Avvar (taller, dirtier, smellier, very hairy: basically a bear of a woman wearing a goat on her head). So.
At least you don't do the dwarf thing Wren.]
How do I woo Bruiser and Crusher. I'd be better at getting rid of the unsuitables in her life. I'd just talk to them. [Five minutes with Yngvi and sane men would run screaming.]
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[ You jam your hand inside it and flap about, and it looks as though it's speaking. She imagines that's how the Divines do it. ]
Really — Even the elf?
[ Wait. Oops. She waves her hand in a never-you-mind gesture, ]
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[Say it ain't so Wren. He's going to just take that bottle and become one with it to help him better scheme how to--
But no. She wouldn't betray him in such a fashion. Would she?
(He's possibly attempting to say portions of this aloud. With the bottle pressed to his face. Wine everywhere. Very attractive. Very drunk. This is also why dwarves don't dream: think of all the terrible Thranduil-murdering dreams he would dream.)]
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[ She agrees, sprawling down to prop herself upon elbows. Then. Scooches aside a little, to account for the new wine-spit puddles coming off Yngvi. ]
No, you are right, I said nothing.
[ Convincing. Nailed it. The master liar gives up, ]
I would hope he makes an honest woman of her, but it will go better for them both should they refrain.
[ Orlais could forgive the scandal of an affair with a foreign elven demon — the foreign elven demon being (reportedly) handsome enough. But to marry one? Maker. ]