Hobbes couldn't have been much thinner. Whipcord muscles were stretched taught across his small frame, viewable through his black bodyglove. His hair, pulled back behind him, wound into a ponytail that crawled down his back. Beneath his swirling black cloak, his mithral shirt glistens next to the reflecting waters, with a keen pair of daggers attached to the belt. His right eye is a piercing black, the other covered by a crude eyepatch.
Speaking to now one in particular, perhaps to himself, Hobbes says 'I can't swim well. But if it'll stop Zanzriu, then I'll do it.'
Hobbes then began securing his backpack and daggers, checking for any loose ends.