"I don't think I'm much of a lotion sort. Anything on my face usually just winds up stinging my eyes as soon as I start to sweat." Sweating and plate mail go hand in hand.

He shifts his lean on his hand so he's propped more on his hip, the better to face him while they speak. It's hard not to notice the clothing, how much it differs from what he's used to, how detailed. It's even harder to imagine fiddling with all the clasps while dressing until he compares it to gearing up in plate. It doesn't get much more complicated than that.

His gaze drifts higher to the dark hair. Come to think of it, has he ever seen it mussed or out of place? There's a little truth in the barbarian remarks in that context. "You really oil it every day? Don't you get tired of that? There's something to be said for just letting yourself be, isn't there?" He likes nothing more than the rare few days when he doesn't have to uniform up and can do as he pleases. He's had none of them since the disaster.