Their encounter is the making of something forgettable — Daithi, content to leave well enough alone, wanting only a simple ale to comfort in light of his own death — but shemlen are ever an irritation.

Daithi bows his head, pausing to gather himself, then turns to face the other.

His eyes shine in what little light the tavern offers. Ink decorates most of his features, incongruous to the militarism of a uniform (although perhaps not the steel of strategically placed armor). If he is one of the fair folk, he is not particularly short or tall for any, and an empty sleeve may lessen any threat or majesty.

His turn in dismissive, sardonic, "what gave it away?" he asks. His accent is surprisingly British for not human.