His green tracked her eyes as she spoke, trying to glean intention for her interaction. Trying to see if her pupils would flick to the left or right, indicating perhaps some kind of ambush. He got lost in the color of them, the way they were ignited by the colors of the morning.

Whitlock would turn his face, however, when he saw her eyes linger onto his tarnished face.
Partially a hint of embarrassment- he no longer had a helmet or a mask to shield the world from it. He felt naked, exposed, with it out in the open air.
Yet it was also a protective sentiment that guided his head away from her. Many a woman or child had ran away at the site of his battle scarred face. They imagined him just as the monsters he slayed, even if he was there to defend them. He did not want her to fear him or run away. It was so pleasant to speak with anyone for quite this long.

The winter may appear harsh, He began, trying to push focus off of his appearance. But it is also delicate, like snowflakes and icicles. The man looked away down at the ground and away from the woman, slightly bashful at his lack of beautiful wordsmithing. Not much conversation was to be had with dead men and demons- so he was quite out of practice.

What way would you prefer it to be? He asked, his ear flicking to face her and intently hear her response.