In typical Lyra fashion, in the sense that physical boundaries are mostly ignored, she silently came up behind Garog and began to poke at his back side. She half expected to get swung at, so she took a wide step backwards after a few pokes. "Do you still have your tramp stamp?" she asked nonchalantly, she never looked at his face but rather kept studying his body.
He didn’t even hear her or sense her. The orc peered down at the papers on the table before him, looking over countless plans and schematics he was working over.Poke. He blinked and looked up, did something just poke him in the back? Dagger or needle?Poke, poke, poke. Garog turned around with a shift of loud chains and armor being moved and disturbed from their fiery rest. For once he did not have his mask or hood on, revealing his chiseled face, purple beard kept neat and trimmed, faint white scar in the shape of an H glaring at everything around him. Gray eyes staring down at the blonde haired woman looking over his person.“Lady Lyramist? The fel you doing? Why are you poking me?” Why was she looking at him with the question hanging in the air. “Tramp stamp?” He juggled the thoughts in his head as his green skin took on the most lovely of red blushes.“Y-yes?! Why would I not have it? I couldn’t even talk to the wolves without it, I- why the fel would you ask that?” He asked hotly and his hands went to his backside above his butt as to cover it up, despite having heavy mail covering it up.“… What can this humble shaman do for the Mistress of Dreams? I don’t seem of importance for anyone such as yourself. You are leader of the Black Hands, no? I am only the captain of the Banshee’s Wail.”
@lyramist-winters