🥂 "If you're just standing, move." Griss elbows past to get at the refreshments spread out on the table, but he stops suddenly and glances toward the man's face. "Oh, you're--" Recognition flashes through his expression. Sigurd, he recalls, though he can't help thinking that the fabled knight looks somehow older in the flesh. Surprise melts into a sneer. "--lookin' rough. Something tells me that's not the battle's fault."

Sigurd feels the shove of an elbow at his side, and he responds with a clipped, "Oh, I do beg your pardon," before stepping aside to let the brusque man through. He is scarred, and pierced and aggravated, and hardened in a way that Sigurd felt he could not commiserate with. 

The comment hits him with some force, and Sigurd straightens to his full height. His recovery had been remarkable, thanks to the ministrations of the archbishop, but he knew he was still littered with wavy burn scars which, faint though they were, he could not help but feel self-conscious over. He tugged at his collar, brow furrowing.

"No, I did not have the pleasure of meeting any on the field," Sigurd says pointedly. "Don't let this haggard appearance fool you, however – I remain, as ever, happy to greet any challenge."