[ Jorah’s eyes are blue, and keen -- all the moreso for the fact that the rest of him is an amalgamation of swarthy leather and dirt and the same shirt he’s been wearing for weeks now, if not months, everything in shades of brown and grey. One look at her is enough to stop him fast where he stands, with half a chair broken down into kindling and his breath fogging faint around his ears. Wary.
He hasn’t met many witches, but she has a certain look to her. ]
I don’t recall being invited, [ he says, once he’s had time to take her in.
Suspicion is spelled out plain in the furrow of his brow, along with uncertainty. He looks like he's in danger of starting a fire if his brain cells rub together any harder or faster to figure out what to do about her and her tapping finger. ]
no subject
He hasn’t met many witches, but she has a certain look to her. ]
I don’t recall being invited, [ he says, once he’s had time to take her in.
Suspicion is spelled out plain in the furrow of his brow, along with uncertainty. He looks like he's in danger of starting a fire if his brain cells rub together any harder or faster to figure out what to do about her and her tapping finger. ]