Sweden, meet the best guitarist to come out of you in recent years. Why does that sound so wrong?
"Heeeej, du talar svenska? Everybodies else heres seem to only speaks de uglies engelska. Pfft, wouldn't knows a reals language if theys heards it." He eyed his home country (not that he knew who Berwald really was) up and down. Well, the dude did appear Swedish enough. "Don'ts ams be expectsing any good Herrgårdsost, either. Deys mostly serves shit here. And eyesball sandwiches."
'Dethklok' was the magic word, causing Skwisgaar to brighten a little despite himself. Usually no one in this shithole had heard of them and it could get grating. Clearly, this guy had good taste -- the compliment certainly didn't hurt Skwisgaar's opinion of him, either, egomaniac that he is.
"You've heard of us?" he continued in Swedish, which will likewise be rendered in English for mun convenience. It had the added benefit of making Skwisgaar intelligible for once. "Where are you from? You know, what world, since everyone's from different worlds here. And the rövskägg dildos here have universally shitty taste in music, it's all this ear-bleeding shit that makes me want to die." Something he could remember from being here before and catching WART broadcasts. Well, Toki's had been pretty good, not that he'd ever tell him so. They totally need to do one together.
"M'Sweden. L'ter'lly Sweden." Berwald shrugged. "Consider you fifth mine, in cult'ral sense." Shame America has a bigger claim on Dethklok, but Sweden and Norway do have their own heroes in Dethklok.
America's members of Dethklok were all fatty dildos anyway. Clearly the Scandinavians were superior in pretty much every way.
Berwald's claim earned him a blank stare from the other Swede. This wasn't the first time he'd heard something like that, but it still made absolutely no sense.
Skwisgaar leant closer and lowered his voice. "Can I have some of whatever you're on?" he asked hopefully. "That douchebag with the glasses wouldn't share. He was a real dick." Suddenly remembering something, he glanced from his copy of the application to Sweden. "Berwald, eh? He was talking shit about you too."
Skwisgaar heaved a disappointed sigh and stood straight. Why wouldn't anyone share any good shit with him? "How are you literally Sweden? You look like a person."
"P'rson'f'cat'n. 'xist'd f'r 'ndreds of years." Which really didn't explain how or why they existed, but this was something not even the countries themselves know. Perhaps the now-dead forefathers knew, but I doubt it.
"So... If your pal 'America' ate one of your fingers or your arm or something, that's like immigration? Or when you stick you-know-what into him?" He snickered. "Pfft, America. The Swedes who immigrated there hundreds of years ago all got fat and ugly, I love* it." Certainly in more ways than one, schuh-wing.
So inured was Skwisgaar to having his taste insulted (it occurred on a daily basis, after all), that Sweden's response only really registered enough to turn his mind to another of his favourite topics: potential Toki mockery.
"What does Norway look like? Bet he's a huge dildo, right?" Or was probably even a lady country.
"'Bout th's high." Sweden held up his hand. The mun doesn't know the exact height, only that it's between 170 and 182 centimeters. "N'glasses. H'rc'rl fl'ts by i'self." Berwald thought a bit. "Tr'll's with him s'm'times."
"Pfft, haircurl. Like a little dildo then," he surmised with amusement. This was coming from someone close to 198cm tall, of course. He was, however, clearly interested in the last part of what Sweden said. "Trolls? What kind?" he asked, probably misinterpreting how 'troll' was meant. "We once accidentally summoned a Finnish lake troll. That was pretty brutal."
"Heeeej, du talar svenska? Everybodies else heres seem to only speaks de uglies engelska. Pfft, wouldn't knows a reals language if theys heards it." He eyed his home country (not that he knew who Berwald really was) up and down. Well, the dude did appear Swedish enough. "Don'ts ams be expectsing any good Herrgårdsost, either. Deys mostly serves shit here. And eyesball sandwiches."
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He shrugged. "C'n get my own." He eyed up his guitarist. (In the nationality sense.)
"D'thklok d's you good."
(I'm going with naturally Berwald knows of Skwisgaar.)
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"You've heard of us?" he continued in Swedish, which will likewise be rendered in English for mun convenience. It had the added benefit of making Skwisgaar intelligible for once. "Where are you from? You know, what world, since everyone's from different worlds here. And the rövskägg dildos here have universally shitty taste in music, it's all this ear-bleeding shit that makes me want to die." Something he could remember from being here before and catching WART broadcasts. Well, Toki's had been pretty good, not that he'd ever tell him so. They totally need to do one together.
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Berwald's claim earned him a blank stare from the other Swede. This wasn't the first time he'd heard something like that, but it still made absolutely no sense.
Skwisgaar leant closer and lowered his voice. "Can I have some of whatever you're on?" he asked hopefully. "That douchebag with the glasses wouldn't share. He was a real dick." Suddenly remembering something, he glanced from his copy of the application to Sweden. "Berwald, eh? He was talking shit about you too."
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*around 7:03
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Berwald made a noise of what was probably amusement at Skwisgaar's proclamation. "Str'nge t'st's."
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"What does Norway look like? Bet he's a huge dildo, right?" Or was probably even a lady country.
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"Pfft, haircurl. Like a little dildo then," he surmised with amusement. This was coming from someone close to 198cm tall, of course. He was, however, clearly interested in the last part of what Sweden said. "Trolls? What kind?" he asked, probably misinterpreting how 'troll' was meant. "We once accidentally summoned a Finnish lake troll. That was pretty brutal."
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