He's a tattooed dwarf sporting armour that, back in Thedas, would have marked him as a member of the Legion of the Dead. His casteless brand has faded with time, but is still present on one bruised cheekbone. And absolutely none of that matters for the first time in his life, because he's in a world where the old rules don't matter, would never matter again. How do you start over when the world around you is a blank slate, but you're not?

At least some things don't change. A warrior's pride is a delicate thing.

"Well next time, feel free to give me a little back-up," he tells Valdis, and resumes wiping the beast's viscera off of his face. He shakes his hand off to rid him of the excess, then peers up at the new arrival to the scene. "Nice sword," he adds, though his eyes linger on the glowing blade and gem somewhat apprehensively.