#veilstrine

"kaffas! i'm aware." he lifts a hand to wipe the side of his face, flicking it out to rid himself of most of the mud. there's no helping what's stuck to his clothes or the rest of his person. a displeasure everyone will continue to hear of.

"traipsing through this maker forsaken countryside... it's raining-the ground is wet and soft. it's certainly not my fault the unlucky bastard was standing in mud." there's an edge to his tone, disgust and annoyance coating each syllable. "i'll just hit the next miserably rouge in the face. problem solved."