Sawyer had walked by the young woman, oblivious to the dogtag that slipped out of his pocket until the reflective metal strewn on the pavement caught the eye of the girl. He turned when she regarded him and offered him his fallen object. He had brown, curly hair which fell and twisted in locks, dirt and mites hiding in the folds eaten down upon by the sultry heat setting on the Dojo. It hung down onto a face reddish, beaten by the sun and obviously showing great merit for previous feats. His scars were very visible, hundreds of large and small variety jaggedly lining his face, and although mostly healed, they retained crude shape. One ran straight over his right eye, which was half-gone, glaring and dull and striking straight through the center mass a sterling blue iris. He wore a heavy overcoat of worn leather, ripped open and haphazardly kept together by loose stitches. The contents within spilled out, soft padding and fluff hanging loosely, yet mostly obscured by the huge array of weaponry that lined his chest, sides, belt and inside jacket. An assault rifle, shotguns, knives, multi tools, rations and potent potions, some of which including his precious [i]fialtra[/i]. An undershirt was openly displayed in a partition of his coat, displaying a fraction of his well-endowed and muscular physique. His biceps rippled as well, and the huge sword on his back verified that he was a swordsman. He smiled at her, yet took the dogtag with great haste, almost worriedly. It had a small ID on its metal front, as well as a circle overlapped with a triangle and a winged sword. It read of a certain someone named [b]Thorinir[/b]. He scanned over her, turning to go, when he saw her large gun surrounded by 20mm coils and the imprint on its handle, Galahad Industries. His slow shift away stopped, and he smiled, extending a black glove without fingers for a shake.