Of all the times he could scare something into fainting, it had to be some defenseless looking woman. Not a knight. Not an orc. A human woman who looked and dressed too proper for her own good.
“Now you’re just making me feel awful,” he confessed. “Why don’t you drink some water?”
“Water?” She dared a look back up at him, tried to accustom herself to the hideous appearance. Looking past the warts and the green, she could see–was it guilt–on his face. She hadn’t meant to make him feel awful, nor did he apparently mean to startle her. “I…don’t have any. Bandits stole my belongings and killed my men…many leagues back.” Was something wrong with her? The fact that she so casually faced gore and death but could not face a little green thing that looked like a moldy boulder?
