[ Ozpin looks to the wolf at his side, then drops his attention to his hands. He is without his gloves, which is a rarity since arriving in Trench. In the light of his bedside lamp, it is difficult to make out the faint mottled scarring across his hands, pocked with tentacle sucker-marks. It is easier to make out the newer, more distinct scars he had not arrived with. In each palm, and the back of each hand, is a messy knot of scarring— as though something stabbed straight through.

He strokes a thumb almost absently across one of these palm-marks, and exhales a breath. ]

We'd had such a gentle arrival, you see. The lull before a storm. That first true act of violence came as more surprise than it ought to.