Most things about him are travel-worn: a well-worn dark coat, well-kept, not frayed, not falling apart, but still showing evidence of long marches under the sun; dusty and broken in leather boots, pants a sandy beige; high collared shirt light and breathable, all built to last. The hilt of an odd sword with a jagged blade-- like lightning-- is affixed to one of the belts underneath the coat, and a couple large pouches of lighter tomes beside.
(He smells somewhat distinctly of ozone, if they can recognize the scent of it-- things that happen when your favoured magic is electric. His hair is windblown, windswept. There's an odd faint scent of ocean around him, as well, as if he was caught in the spray or was out above the sea for a while.)
He catches the slight motion, though he doesn't openly react or comment. Tension, then; reflexes tend to betray more than measured actions. Flight, fright, fight... Really, any of them are equally possible, though he's distantly curious what in specific made a child this small (maybe not so young, actually? he's not good at pinpointing the difference between what should be owed to malnutrition and what to youth, but he's sure that war has left no shortage of the former, even if their attire is strange) so wary. There's no shortage of possible reasons for that, though, not when he doesn't know the circumstances, which is why he doesn't think more of it. Now to leave alone, and not possibly make a bad situation worse, or to try to figure out what's wrong in the first place, hm...
Well. He's always been a worrywart, and what kind of person would he be if he willfully walked away from a child in distress before at least trying? He thinks of another world's Morgan, briefly, and- well, no need to follow that thought to its end. It's over, it didn't- won't happen.
He offers up both hands, palms empty (but his fingers and palms have the calluses typical of a practiced swordsman), a sheepish grin on his face. "All right." Then he leans back, letting out a sigh that's less tired and more just an exhalation of a held breath. Libra would be better than he at handling hurt children, considering he doesn't even remember his own childhood. "Is there anything I can do to help, or do you just... want me to go? I'd understand, really. Sometimes you just want to get sad- or mad-" he says, stifling a grimace, "without it bothering anyone. But sometimes it's also easier to just... work it off, with someone else?"
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2018-03-05 10:55 pm (UTC)Most things about him are travel-worn: a well-worn dark coat, well-kept, not frayed, not falling apart, but still showing evidence of long marches under the sun; dusty and broken in leather boots, pants a sandy beige; high collared shirt light and breathable, all built to last. The hilt of an odd sword with a jagged blade-- like lightning-- is affixed to one of the belts underneath the coat, and a couple large pouches of lighter tomes beside.
(He smells somewhat distinctly of ozone, if they can recognize the scent of it-- things that happen when your favoured magic is electric. His hair is windblown, windswept. There's an odd faint scent of ocean around him, as well, as if he was caught in the spray or was out above the sea for a while.)
He catches the slight motion, though he doesn't openly react or comment. Tension, then; reflexes tend to betray more than measured actions. Flight, fright, fight... Really, any of them are equally possible, though he's distantly curious what in specific made a child this small (maybe not so young, actually? he's not good at pinpointing the difference between what should be owed to malnutrition and what to youth, but he's sure that war has left no shortage of the former, even if their attire is strange) so wary. There's no shortage of possible reasons for that, though, not when he doesn't know the circumstances, which is why he doesn't think more of it. Now to leave alone, and not possibly make a bad situation worse, or to try to figure out what's wrong in the first place, hm...
Well. He's always been a worrywart, and what kind of person would he be if he willfully walked away from a child in distress before at least trying? He thinks of another world's Morgan, briefly, and- well, no need to follow that thought to its end. It's over, it didn't- won't happen.
He offers up both hands, palms empty (but his fingers and palms have the calluses typical of a practiced swordsman), a sheepish grin on his face. "All right." Then he leans back, letting out a sigh that's less tired and more just an exhalation of a held breath. Libra would be better than he at handling hurt children, considering he doesn't even remember his own childhood. "Is there anything I can do to help, or do you just... want me to go? I'd understand, really. Sometimes you just want to get sad- or mad-" he says, stifling a grimace, "without it bothering anyone. But sometimes it's also easier to just... work it off, with someone else?"