[ Whoever this man is, he's no braggart. Damian can appreciate that on some level, but on a more practical one, it's annoying. Prideful men are always the easiest to get a handle on, endear one's self to. The thought casts not so much as a passing shadow over his face though, as he shrugs out of his clothing. ]

That's kind of you -- but in my experience this is just a matter of priorities. Anyone can dress well, if it's important to them.

[ Which it clearly is, from the way he hangs the jacket, pants, and dress shirt draped over a tree branch. The rest is folded neatly on the ground, and Damian is quick to hustle himself into the water. Not quite so quick that he doesn't, for a moment, show off the tapestry of scars of his body. Some old, some new, some faint, some looking like they once might have been quite severe, all scattered with no apparent pattern.

Once he's chest-deep in water and looking very content for it, he leans to offer out a hand for a shake. ]

Damian Saint Lorrant.

[ Let's see that hand again, buddy. ]