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So he was a candidate again. Falienn flicked at the cords hung from his shoulder with...at least not contempt this time. Contemplation? It was hard to say. At the moment he was more fixated on the fact that the cords refused to hang straight, insisting on twisting a bit. Probably, really, it was his scarf that turned them, dragging over the little ropes as he moved and looked about in the course of the day.

He'd considered trying to remove the scarves, but honestly every time he did, to bathe or to change, it was...he hated it. The vicious, savage, knotted and gnarled flesh across the whole front of his neck staring back at him in his reflection in the looking glass or the bath water. It really was a miracle he'd not lost his head entirely, gone like that one fellow, whats-his-name, H-something, from Western. Maybe one day he'd be proud of the marks, of the fact that he'd survived. He didn't feel like a triumphant victor though. He'd gotten lucky, and the green (That Green) had simply moved on of her own accord, and nothing to do with him.

But he'd already spent too much time letting the memory of that green b***h dominate his thoughts. He'd decided to do the thing, and shard and stuff it if he wasn't going to give it his best now that he'd decided. It might be a bit of a last stand—his voice still refused to smooth, and the healers had cautioned him against getting so much as the sniffles lest he lose the use of it entirely—mute candidates did not typically end up riders after all, but at this point backing out would mark him a coward. And he wasn't that, certainly.

He tugged at the knots again, sighing to himself. They'd twisted. Maybe a shorter scarf? That was how he'd ended up standing before his cot in the barracks, door into the main common area wide open, hands on his hips and staring down a lineup of some ten and twenty scarves. If this one was going to make him look a mess (even if the color did wonderfully match his eyes!) then he'd simply have to find another one. A shorter one, but one still wide enough to hide the vicious scars. He yanked the offending length of sheer cloth from his neck, sliding it through one palm over and over as he debated. Really, he was going to need to build an entirely new wardrobe to accommodate the need for this certain accessory, wasn't he?

A thrill of almost fearful irritation sang up his spine as someone called out to him from beside and behind. He'd been working at not becoming instantly furious at being spotted with his scars on show...but it took a moment to calm himself. The person (woman) was offering advice, and as he pivoted to regard her, he decided the advice wasn't so terrible. the red one was fetching, and it'd cost a pretty mark...it would be worth flaunting, but... It'd just been so long since he tried to be eye-catching. His scars, sickness, lack of focus had made him want to retreat into the shadows and remain out of the center of attention.

Putting that scarf on would be a step back into the focal point, really. A hint of the old Falienn shining through the scuffed up version he was now. Was he...ready for that?

The woman looked like she'd seen better days too. Another new candidate? Must be, to be here. He'd been so caught up in his own drama of late, there were so many new faces around that he didn't know on sight. Still, she seemed harmless. Older than him, maybe, but something in her baring spoke of practice, knowledge about such things as what scarf went better with a person's body and style. He really did look good in the red.

"Alright then," His voice too was low. Slightly rough, if he raised it at all or for long, then it'd go to gravel in no time. "It IS a nice scarf." A long pause as he glanced her up and down. "...Care for one?" He had no trouble being a trendsetter. It would be more of the old him, really, to do something like that. His hand waved over the pile of strips of fabric. "I've plenty, of course, and only one neck."