[/html]She got predictably huffy, and still alarm did not enter his stance nor expression, but a simple shrug of the shoulders sufficed. "I didn't say it didn't look nice," he said flatly, but left the lack of verification in the open. He was not one for compliments, after all, and she knew that. Such a sentence would be enough of a hint that however she dressed didn't really bother him, as he was not exactly one for appearances—being coated in scars, a sling, and a missing eye.
But she swept forward and reached for his tattered fingers, the ones hanging limply from the edge of the sling across his chest; she kissed them, which perked his ears confusedly, before the Savant pulled at the arm altogether. The arm and sling lifted off his chest and he noticeably winced, but followed her direction if for not other reason than to prevent her from doing anything else with his wounded arm, and he was forced into his rocking chair, which creaked disapprovingly at the sudden weight.
I made something for you, she chirped next, and from her satchel she presented possibly the most horrendous-looking thing he had ever seen; green eye stared at it quite perplexedly, clueless entirely what it even was or why its color so painfully stabbed his eye. It was, in fact, nearly as painful as his now-throbbing arm, but his expression did not expose it. Instead, he simply stared at it. Clueless, perplexed, somewhat dumbfounded. Hesitatingly, the brute raised a finger to poke at the monstrosity of a puffball at the hat's top, then retracted his finger as if the fabric itself was on fire. "What, uh..." he stammered, unable to pry his eye away, "what is this... thing?"
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