“Is there a single inch of you that isn’t covered in scar tissue?” she asked. Osric looked down at himself—at his chest, decorated by reminders of various blades; at his forearms, ridged by burns; at his shins, scattered with memories of a long-ago explosion. “There is,” said Osric. “A few inches, actually. Under the kilt.” Fairhrim, who had no sense of humour, said aridly, “Spare me further details.”
