Carefully, like a nix-hound closing on a wounded guar or an aged and diseased nix-ox, the Reachman moved forward. Each motion was dog-like, and loping. He pressed upon the Dunmer's space and flourished. Arms up and outward, eyes forward and focused. Burning like wisps behind the grotesque mask of skin and bone.

"[i][b]Ash-Face.[/b][/i]" Once he had repeated the words, he clapped his hands against his various furs as if cleaning them. "[b]Don't mind it too much. Don't get too [i]Red[/i] about it. I'm sure there may be a [i]Year[/i] and place where your people are seen as strong and reasonable. Not just you, though. Knife-Eared loons and witches all alike might be worth respecting with proper names, one day.[/b]" His focus on [i]red[/i] and [i]year[/i] was a surprisingly aware jab at the all too recent crisis of the Dunmer.

"[b]Though if you have a name, I'll call you for it. If you shall share it.[/b]" Carefully, the man moved away. His focus was now split between packing the deer up in all its valuable bits, and conversing with the strangers. "[b]The only thing I know better than Skyrim and her routes is the respect of a name.[/b]"

[@josephb][@SoulChrysamere][@Mixcoatl]