Lumpy

Lumpy was in fact quite good at digging holes. When there had been digging to do back home, his mother's husband had made sure he was the one doing it. The militias usually made him too, come to think of it. He could swear up and down he'd dug every hole in Scardale. As he progressed, he gradually stripped extraneous furs from himself, heating up quickly beneath the bulky garments. Eventually, he's left only with his pair of homespun wool pants as well as boots and heavy gloves to aid his grip. And though the tip of his whole ear reddens and gooseflesh prickles along his leathery skin, he seems comfortable in the cold.

He drives the shovel into the ground with a grunt, the tool's handle creaking and bending under the applied force. Digging in the winter was stupid really, but he didn't need anyone else losing focus on their goal on account of alternative burials. He glances up in surprise as Nyssa speaks up, leaving his shovel stuck in the ground, swaying slightly,

"Huh?" A moment later, his mind catches up, processing the information and supplying an answer. He glances down at himself, then at her, as if trying to further divine her meaning, What's she playing at?Ah, whatever. . .. Regardless, he shrugs, tracing his finger along a number of scars as he rattles off their descriptions and cause. It almost seems he knows every one of them,

"Most'a these ones" He traces orderly marks traveling perpendicularily along both his forearms. Their order and alignment is uncannily good, "come from blocking swords. Beats getting hit in the face. The little round ones are from arrows. I picked up more than a few'a them up north, but a couple're from the Dales too.." His hands slide up to his scalp, where an oddly posistioned scar shimmies it's way along the top of his bony head "This one's actually where a crossbow bolt bounced off. It was a lousy shot. Most'a the other nicks here are from knife-fighting. They're always going fer the face, unless they know what they're doing" He points out cuts along his cheeks and nose, as well as his missing eartip, but then moves along to a nasty set of three jagged slashes curiving down his browline, narrowly missing one eye, " 'Cept this one. Big walking statue near tore my face off in the Underdark.""

He resumes shoveling, though he keeps speaking
"Everything else's just normal wear and tear. Little nicks and scrapes happen when ya fight. Well, the ones on my back are lashings, but it's all basically the same."