Guts isn’t gone for too long, limited by his rumbling stomach and a bump into some of the girls returning from their exercise. Lashan might hear their brief altercation from the bath house, an exchange of ugly stares and few curt words, before he shyly wanders back to the infirmary fully dressed in her clothes.

There is quite a bit of muscle packed onto his frame, filling out the garments despite the awkward proportions. Although still holding onto some adolescent softness around the edges, the young mercenary already had the top-heavy shape of a man.

With the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, thin scars up his forearms were easily visible. Multitudes of sword nicks up his right - his left less so, due to the steel gauntlet he usually wore there. Both hands were less marked, though the callused palms gave hint enough of the kind of life he’d lived so far. 

He looks curiously at the meal, used to the harshly utilitarian foodstuff of war camps and wild game. Silently, he starts with the porridge and begins to sip. He doesn't make for much of a conversation partner, taking small and measured bites of each dish. He'd never really had much socializing at mealtime, either because he was alone or with rough men who had little interest in what some boy had to say.

That was fine. He didn't particularly enjoy talking with them, either.