Bull puttered around, seeming downright comfortable in the small kitchen despite his size. Once the water had boiled, he poured it over the bags of mint tea in each mug. "It's not supposed to be," he answered. "But my cover identity was to act as a mercenary, which meant taking jobs."

He offered Greta her mug and picked up his own, hip leaning against the counter.

"The eye went first," he said, his tone easy, light despite the subject matter. "I had other scars before that, but that was the first... big one. A Tribune and his men were harassing a young soldier - a deserter - in a tavern. They were going to do something bad to him, so I stepped in. Got hit in the face with a flail during the ensuing fight."