Ugh— keep your voice down, I have a terrible headache.

( What is a...wrestler, anyway? Someone who wrestles people? Why? The more Esikko thinks on it, the more he doesn't understand. If anyone should be frustrated about not being recognized, it's him, after all. But he's not so delusional.

At the very least, that compliment is enough flattery to keep Esikko from going on a bitchfest, and so he takes in a slow breath, instead. Hmm. He can't just talk about how that's how his blood smells, right? It's weird. )

I naturally smell rather floral, if that's what you mean. ( True enough, even when he doesn't have a bandaged wound. The sniff still tickled a little, though, and so he tilts his head a bit in the reaction of it, squirming in his arms to try and turn himself a little more. Let him see your big pretty face, you buff man. His imagination is going wild trying to think of what they got up to.

Literally every thought is of him railing Beowulf, for the record. )

You seem in high spirits... Does your head not hurt? Do those muscles of yours keep you from getting a hangover?