He's both more and less a shocking sight than he could be—to the extent he could ever be shocking to someone who's been dragged through multiple worlds, anyway—with no shirt to hide the full curling pattern of white brands over his arms and chest, but enough dirt to turn the bright white of the markings and his hair a more acceptable dusty color. Underneath the dirt he's got enough ferocious disdain to rise to match the woman's spitting. He was already in a foul mood, anyway. Stereotypes about elves right into the bin: Fenris hates the blighted wilderness.
She has his knife. 'His' knife. The knife he's claimed, out of many available knives, for jobs too small and detaily for the sword strapped to his back.
base!
He's both more and less a shocking sight than he could be—to the extent he could ever be shocking to someone who's been dragged through multiple worlds, anyway—with no shirt to hide the full curling pattern of white brands over his arms and chest, but enough dirt to turn the bright white of the markings and his hair a more acceptable dusty color. Underneath the dirt he's got enough ferocious disdain to rise to match the woman's spitting. He was already in a foul mood, anyway. Stereotypes about elves right into the bin: Fenris hates the blighted wilderness.
She has his knife. 'His' knife. The knife he's claimed, out of many available knives, for jobs too small and detaily for the sword strapped to his back.
"That is not," he says, "how we do things here."