He’s covered in tattoos? But that wasn’t it. No, she corrected herself dreamily, a fuzzy vice around her forehead. He’s engraved. Deep livid sores ate into the skin, etched across his cheeks in raw, indented teardrops, cutting down into his neck with pale forks of scar tissue. It was as if something had gouged chunks of his flesh away, dug out the fibres for sport.
