Whitefish River frater meus, you're beautifully made

The woman, for that is what she was, not some odd looking stick, spoke back to him. She was not from here, a traveler, and his interest piqued as he turned his head to take her in with a single sweep of his eye, before his head pointed back to the mesa. Looming, distant, omnipresent. 

He licked his nose.

Yes. I was born in those mountains. He said, tipping his head to indicate the mountain range towering over them both. Then, he fixed her with a stare.

Have you happened to see a man about my height and stature, a bit more grey in the face and chest? Going by Germanicus? It wouldn’t hurt to ask, would it?