Zavac, easily being the youngest at the table, looks at each of the men in turn, careful not to let his sad, yellow eyes linger too long at any particular Pathfinder. Ah, another half-orc, he muses to himself, noting the tusks and off-green tint that match his own. Perhaps I won't feel so alone. But, you never know...HOrcs can be just as volatile as their full-blooded counterparts.
Zavac's shaved head glistens in the light cast off by the torches (sunlight?), whilst his rather poor attempt at a beard, coal black, seems to mock from below. Carefully reading the familiar etched words in wood before him, he subconsciously allows his fingers to trace the etches in his own skin. Trial, error, trial, error. The gauntlets, scale mail and white robe cover the majority of the healed lacerations; he cannot hide those upon his face. Still, despite his awkwardness, he wears those with a certain pride.
Being only 17, and taking mostly after his human ancestry, his legs barely reach the ground while in this seat made for men. Merely 5'5, he had been shunned by most of the Orcs he had run into, and due to his Orcish "flaws", most humans had strayed slightly further. The scars that cover his body only add to this, but you'd be surprised. Never judge a book by it's cover. The most ragged usually have the most interesting tales to tell. He hadn't had much problems regarding what runs through his blood once he had made it to Absalom, but still. The looks he sometimes received from the other initiates...
As the words from the seemingly charismatic Mwangi end, Zavac takes cue. Shooting forth his best smile, however unnatural it appears, "Well, my name is Zavac. You all look familiar...". He trails off, becoming suddenly self conscious. Talking was never his forte. Although, you say someone needs to be scared into something? Well, he knows that card, and how to play it. All too well.
