Regan’s eyes went wide and her eyes went up to her forehead. So profound was her shock that it took her a moment to avert her eyes with a slight cough.

“Uh, no it’s, uh, fine,” Regan mumbled, clearing her throat again, “I’m sorry, I didn’t think about that bit.” Because she hadn’t. This was all a little more complicated than she’d originally thought. On one hand, she couldn’t trust Othello, but on the other hand, she couldn’t afford not to trust him.

“Maybe we can figure something out for tonight,” Regan said, turning as soon as the piss stream went silent. There was clear apprehension in her voice. Regan had to admit, she had visions of Othello choking her out in the night, but it might be that was a risk she was going to have to take.

Yes, the thought had crossed her mind. Shook her head, rolling her eyes and grinning despite herself. Regan had been so certain she was going to have to bully Othello into cooperation. She’d been ready, as always, to meet her opponent with a combative tone and a fist of iron.

But she’d failed to take into account that Othello was not, in actuality, an opponent. He was a fellow soldier. Her responsibility. Which was going to take some getting used to.

“We’re going to get you some proper clothes. You’re a soldier now, after all,” Regan chanced a joke, looking Othello up and down, “Gotta look the part.”

Regan looked at Othello as if he were a creature from another planet when a reluctant, goofy smile spread across her face. Already, she’d decided Othello was nothing like she’d expected. Perhaps he was a highly skilled actor, one that would wait for when her guard was down to stab her in the back. But if he wasn’t…maybe this would work.

“Yeah, well…” Regan said, taking a different approach, “We’ve got plenty of it. So long as you don’t mind me poking and prodding at you before the real work begins.” She opened the door and walked out into the hall, indicating for Othello to follow. They'd be making their way to the outfitters, and whatever poor soldier had gotten stuck with equipment duty that day (perhaps a young @berengar).

As they walked, Regan would look at Othello, analyzing his gait, looking at his posture, and how he responded to the world around him. For the world was certainly responding to him. They passed a few soldiers who stopped in their tracks to stare. Regan stared right back, sharply telling a young recruit to 'move along'.

"That'll stop, eventually." Regan said, glaring after the scampering recruit, "They just don't know what to do with you yet."

And frankly, neither did she.

Well, at least she wouldn’t have to worry about hurting his feelings. Regan rolled her eyes, a reluctant smirk tugging at her lip. Othello was hardly the fearsome barbarian that she’d expected. Barbarian, yes, but there was something oddly endearing about him. Eventually, he’d have to conform to Nevermere standards of military decorum, but for now, his lack of tact and refinement was oddly refreshing.

His next question shocked the smile off her face. Regan grimaced instead, shaking her head before returning to a neutral expression. “No, not married, no.” Thankfully, before Othello could question her more on the matter, they arrived at their destination. Regan opened the door and marched on through, indicating to Othello to close it behind him.

What Othello would see was a long room full of uniforms, belts, boots, and other standard-issue equipment. Some of it was new, but most of the supply was used but in good condition. At the far end was an organized chaos of outfits needing repair. There’d be two soldiers on duty, though with their backs turned she didn’t see who.

“We have a soldier in need of outfitting, cadets.”

For it was the cadets that were placed here for a shift, often ones that had done something to piss off a superior. Nothing taught a lesson better than sifting through stinky soldier socks.

In most cases, Ber would freely admit that he was not a perfect soldier, but in his opinion, many of the punishments he found himself serving were entirely uncalled for. After all, it wasn’t as if Payne’s inability to properly maintain his uniform was a reflection of Ber’s ability to do the same, yet no one seemed to have informed Woodwick of that fact. Regardless, their entire group had been rotating through equipment duty because it would apparently help all of them remember not only how to care for their gear but also the importance of doing so. Wrinkling his nose as he held up a pair of well-worn pants, Ber listened to his current partner-in-misery, Marvin Mallory, complain while he worked and silently joined in on cursing the Lieutenant for the umpteenth time.

The sound of the door opening cut Mallory off mid-sentence and had Ber turning to see the King’s Huntsman and someone else entering the room. Grateful for the distraction, he tossed the pants aside - they were borderline unsalvageable anyway - and, wiping his hands on his own trousers, stepped forward to help. However, the automatic “yes ma’am” died in his throat as he caught sight of the soldier in need of outfitting. The beast of a man, who was covered in tattoos and, curiously, had a beard that held hints of lighter colored hair and wore some sort of metal band around his neck, looked as much a Nevermerean soldier as Ber did a noble. The young man glanced over at Mallory, who had also stopped to stare, then remembered who exactly was standing beside the stranger.

“Uh, yes, ma’am,” He said belatedly, looking at Lassiter again before his gaze drifted back to the man at her side. Move, Stormcrest. Right. Uniform. Equipment. “Just the usual?” Caught between the impulse to address the man himself but doubtful as to whether he actually knew anything useful given that he clearly was new and did not belong, Ber glanced between them both before turning away to start finding something that looked like it would fit the taller man. Regardless of whatever else he may or may not need, the stranger would require a uniform.

Regan swallowed a smirk as she saw the looks on the soldier’s faces. Yes, Othello was going to be quite the project. A group effort, as it were. The Huntsman crossed her arms over her chest and summoned all the stern professionalism she could muster.

“No dress uniform just yet. Just four sets of training clothes will do us just fine. Plus,” Regan looked at Othello for a moment’s consideration, “We’ll need a shaving kit. Gotta clean you up a little.” She grinned with sadistic humor at the scruffy Coheedsman.

Ber nodded at Lassiter’s words and adjusted his path accordingly, going instead to dig through the loosely organized sets of training outfits to find one that might fit the new… soldier. Now that the initial shock had passed, he had questions, though he doubted either of them would be entertaining any inquiries. Nevermereans who rejoined the military later in life were typically grouped in with the other new soldiers like himself, but there was clearly something special about this man if the King’s Huntsman was showing him around. Given the hints of lither color in the stranger’s beard, Ber was fairly certain he was not from Nevermere, but he hadn’t thought they even let outsiders become soldiers. What could a probably-not-Nevermerean have to offer the military that would change that and garner the personal attention of such a high ranking officer?

And what was with the metal around his neck? A liability in a fight if Ber ever saw one, the silver band would provide the perfect way to strangle the man from behind.

Nothing made sense, and the torrent of questions made his brain hurt. This was why Ber just kept his head down and followed orders. Resurfacing with a shirt and pants, the soldier returned to the Huntsman and her charge and handed the clothing to the latter. “Here, Sir…?” His voice trailed off, an invitation for the other man to introduce himself. “If you think those will fit, I can find more.”

Regan watched Othello with increasingly widening eyes as he started to strip. Eventually, with red cheeks and a small cough, she turned away. All she had then was the audio commentary of Othello dressing. Her back to the group she rolled her eyes, letting the poor, unfortunate soldiers on duty take care of the Coheedsman—or whatever he was.

In listening, she took a mental note: Regan was going to have to get him elocution lessons. His accent was near unintelligible, and if he were to be part of a unit, she’d have to see to it he spoke more like a Nevermerean ought.