So maybe they were all in a death match and that was something to be cranky about, and maybe he was standing here with a knife held out towards the new guy's unarmed friend, and maybe he had every reason to be put-offish and distrustful...
There was supposed to be a 'but' in there but Guy couldn't find it when he realized that Cranky Scarily Tall Man had every reason to be cranky.
Despite the sarcasm, he didn't seem keen on impaling him just yet, so Guy came out from behind the tree just a bit now that Sherlock had relaxed the spear slightly, though he didn't stray far from it. Since he was there with a weapon, the nomad looked around to make sure no one else was coming, though he was careful to keep the two in his peripheral vision as he did it. He also thought to look up. (You never knew who or what was in the trees.)
Sherlock now had a better glimpse of him now. Average height, though somewhat short for a man fully grown, skin tanned as if he hardly spent a day in the shade and smudged just a bit with dust that seemed to have been smudged there for quite some time, different from the mud he'd gotten on himself in this place. One of his pant legs was torn, and there was a small strip of cloth there, wrapped around it as if he'd been injured. It was done rather neatly, as if it was done by someone experienced with bandaging wounds. Around the other, his shirt was tied to his leg with vines and it looked soaked and somewhat wrinkled and stretched, as if he'd been squeezing it out repeatedly.
The lack of shirt left his torso visible and his body was stained in brown-red stripes and it looked more like the kind of staining that came of a plant or dye rather than something smeared on. His hair was partly bleached from the sun and looked like it had never been combed in the man's life.
The knife in his hand was made of flint and the bracelet around his wrist, carved with a design of a warthog and a tiger chasing each other's tails was made of bone. Curiously, there was a ring attached to it, one with other rings dangling from it, though those were tied together with a leather strip to not make noise. A little bone rattle.
Guy looked back to Joan. "Guy. Guy Crood. What's your name?" he asked. He nodded over to Sherlock. "And yours, Scarily Tall Man?"
He added, pointing, "That's a really nice spear, by the way."
The way he said it seemed less covetous and more as if he admired the craftsmanship, as if he thought Sherlock had made it himself.
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So maybe they were all in a death match and that was something to be cranky about, and maybe he was standing here with a knife held out towards the new guy's unarmed friend, and maybe he had every reason to be put-offish and distrustful...
There was supposed to be a 'but' in there but Guy couldn't find it when he realized that Cranky Scarily Tall Man had every reason to be cranky.
Despite the sarcasm, he didn't seem keen on impaling him just yet, so Guy came out from behind the tree just a bit now that Sherlock had relaxed the spear slightly, though he didn't stray far from it. Since he was there with a weapon, the nomad looked around to make sure no one else was coming, though he was careful to keep the two in his peripheral vision as he did it. He also thought to look up. (You never knew who or what was in the trees.)
Sherlock now had a better glimpse of him now. Average height, though somewhat short for a man fully grown, skin tanned as if he hardly spent a day in the shade and smudged just a bit with dust that seemed to have been smudged there for quite some time, different from the mud he'd gotten on himself in this place. One of his pant legs was torn, and there was a small strip of cloth there, wrapped around it as if he'd been injured. It was done rather neatly, as if it was done by someone experienced with bandaging wounds. Around the other, his shirt was tied to his leg with vines and it looked soaked and somewhat wrinkled and stretched, as if he'd been squeezing it out repeatedly.
The lack of shirt left his torso visible and his body was stained in brown-red stripes and it looked more like the kind of staining that came of a plant or dye rather than something smeared on. His hair was partly bleached from the sun and looked like it had never been combed in the man's life.
The knife in his hand was made of flint and the bracelet around his wrist, carved with a design of a warthog and a tiger chasing each other's tails was made of bone. Curiously, there was a ring attached to it, one with other rings dangling from it, though those were tied together with a leather strip to not make noise. A little bone rattle.
Guy looked back to Joan. "Guy. Guy Crood. What's your name?" he asked. He nodded over to Sherlock. "And yours, Scarily Tall Man?"
He added, pointing, "That's a really nice spear, by the way."
The way he said it seemed less covetous and more as if he admired the craftsmanship, as if he thought Sherlock had made it himself.