Just mucking around with an idea I had.
Disarming
She squinted out into dappled sunlight. There was a thick, green wood beyond the deep shade of their shelter. The bright patches of sun looked warm and inviting. She ducked out of the low cave and stepped amongst the trees, then couldn't help smiling and tilting her head upwards when the warmth of a patch of sunlight hit her. The woods were still dripping with moisture, which was aggravating, but thankfully the heavy rain was gone.
She turned back at scraping noises behind her to see his massive form crouched on all fours and moving with surprising grace out from under the low stone overhang. A moment later he stood up; when he did, she didn't see the expected armor around his thick torso, instead there were exposed cybernetics interspersing packs of natural muscle and more scares than she'd ever seen on one individual. His bulky silhouette was asymmetrical where the mechanical right arm joined his shoulder. She hadn't even known if he could take off the armor. She knew he hated his machine components but she didn't think it was a bad body. Willy had been right, he was impressive.
She glanced up, taking in the broad expanse of bared chest. He had so many scars. Wherever natural flesh remained there seemed to be snaking lines, abruptly ending where the metal of cybernetics intervened. In certain places the twisting scars even seemed to form patterns. She frowned and peered more closely. There were patterns. Many of the marks were clearly genuine scars, the result of wounds, but others swirled in complex forms that could only be by design. Suddenly fascinated, she traced the path of one arrangement that followed the curve of a pectoral muscle. "They're tattoos . . ."
She saw him start and realized she'd spoken aloud. She glanced up to his face with some apprehension. Even with his nearly emotionless visage his body language could tell you a lot, once you were used to him. He didn't let many people get used to him, though. Now, he looked uncomfortable, but he answered her after a brief pause, sounding almost wistful when he spoke. "They don't mean anything anymore."
The way he chose to answer wasn't lost on her. "What did they mean?" She asked carefully, taking the invitation.
There was a long silence before he spoke again. "It was my pack, my family, my deeds, my responsibilities. They showed my life, and my lineage." Then he rattled off a string of long, lilting syllables, almost musical in their gentle rhythm. He must have read the incomprehension in her face because his next words seemed to be a translation. "The wind that blows from the west. Sharers of messages and visions across the Great Forest . . . But that's not my place anymore, so they mean nothing."
He'd never really talked about his people before. She was curious but sensed the pain when he spoke. She searched for something else to say. His markings set her thinking of the sting of the little needle pen that had marked her own skin. Her design sat flat with crisply defined edges. His were different; the skin was raised, almost carved, and close up the tattoo edges were blurred.
"How were they done?" She asked him.
His answer was straight forward. "A sharp bone and the dye rubbed in."
She winced. No quick little needles. "That must have hurt." She said.
His tone was wistful again. "It hurt more when they came off. Especially the ones on my face."