Faolan made his way to his cot and fished his bag out from underneath. He traveled light, as always, and carried only necessities in a bag that was usually slung over his shoulder. He had found it on a dead solider, and simply kept it. No use to him now anyway.

He laid it on his cot and unzipped it, searching for a fresh shirt. He knew he had one left.

As Lucien finished speaking, he couldn't help but scoff. Too optimistic was right on the nose. He looked over his shoulder, contemplating the situation quietly to himself, trying not to sound too harsh as he spoke, [color=a36209]"And what will we say? 'Officers, my friend here just finished pucking a bunch'a English in their fat gobs, laid 'em out he did, but it was justified. They stole from me and gave me guff!'?"[/color] He pulled his shirt off, which had slightly stuck to his skin, wincing as he did so, and tossed it on to the floor before putting the a "clean" one on. His back was absolutely covered in scars, large and small, deep and light, ones that looked like slashes and others that looked like bite-marks. The largest of them was the scar that could be seen from the front as well; it stretched around his neck and shoulder like an enormous animal had taken a bite from him. It was clear from this view that Faolan knew his way around a battlefield, whatever type that might be.

[color=a36209]"No offence meant, lad, and I know you came down in the last shower and all, but they'll think you're not quite the full schilling with that."[/color]

He sighed and took a seat on his cot, pushing his hair out of his eyes and leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. [color=a36209]"I think that no matter what story you tell, truth or not, they'll get their man in the end. It's not about the truth, it's about who's more put-out, and right now, that's them."[/color]