[ Loxley is not as good at discretion, with his height, his horns, the gravestone grey of his skin and bright eyes, but an effort has been made, and his clothing is likewise unremarkable. The cloak he wears is big and heavy, speckled with rain, stained at the hem from mud.

He splays it out with his arms as if to show himself off for her inspection, smile crooked. ]

Not bleeding all over the place, [ he agrees. ] You—do in fact resemble a supporting character, I'm loathe to say, but that's the point.

Shall we? Before we start losing toes.

[ The street is a mess of snow-slush, frozen mud, iced over pavement, just about every hellish thing you could wish out of a wintry city street in Lowtown. ]

I'd like to make a slight detour before we arrive.