( He attends the bloody party. Not because he's feeling especially social, but because he's curious. And, possibly, somewhat, mayhaps a bit because somebody advised him to consider not entirely isolating himself, although hells if he'd ever admit it out loud to anyone.

Despite it being a voluntary choice, he's still surly about the whole thing. On the way in, he took one look at the aerial course over the trap-ridden path and barked out a derisive, fuck that. After arriving, he's made no special effort to speak with anyone, but rather to scope the homestead out on his own. It's well-made, clearly housed by somebody who knows how to survive, and he feels a grudging respect for them. Wouldn't be a bad idea himself, if he could be bothered.

He mainly hovers around the ale, filling a mug at regular intervals, probably putting down more of the stuff than nearly anyone else. He fills his plate too, with portions befitting a man of his near seven feet of height and absurd muscle mass. He seems to be favoring the goulash, though anything with meat gets its fair turn in his belly.

Despite his attitude and what one might assume, he isn't actually bothering anyone. He seems content to tuck himself silently away on the sidelines, holding his commentary to himself.

At least, until the boars come. )

( Truths be told, he considers leaving when he hears the thunder starting. Everyone's moving inside or huddling under the awnings, it's awfully cramped for a man of his stature. It's only the thought of those bloody traps in the forest outside that makes him abstain; only thing worse than being stuck in a social setting is being stuck in the woods in the middle of a thunder storm.

He's still waffling back and forth around the time the rumbling starts — and after a few seconds, he seems to be one of the first to perk up at the slow realization: that's no thunder.

It's fucking hooves.

This man, who's been otherwise quiet and content to keep to himself, whirls suddenly on the room at large and bellows out:)

Somebody give me a fucking sword!

( This, perhaps, is how he demonstrates what little value he's got to offer to the Summoned. It's a display of efficient brutality, surprisingly graceful for a man with his strength as he quickly, unflinchingly drives the blade into any beast who dares get too close to the gathering. He is, by the end, rather covered in hog viscera. Panting heavily, sore thanks to the last remaining vestiges of his injuries.

But he feels more satisfied than he has in days. )

( Perhaps surprisingly, he lingers to help clean up the place. He's no carpenter, but he knows his way around hard work. Knows how to knock fences back into position. He rights any upturned tables, hefts any boar corpses to a more convenient pile.

And he does it all while listening intently to the Witch and the Raccoon as they fill the group in on the current political situation. He makes no contributions, it's not his place, not his business, not his affair, but he listens. Considers. Slowly, begins to form opinions on a place he had no real prior investment in. )