He was unconscious by the time she had found him, both from the cold and the loss of blood, nearly lost in a drift of snow that had piled against his armoured form.  Had he been conscious, he would not have been terribly fond of being carried in the claws of a dragon or carried on currents of arctic wind to where she had decided to place him.  He clutched his sword in a death grip the entire way, only to finally drop it once she began to remove his armour.<br/><br/>He was a modestly handsome man; confident features.  His soft brown hair was kept neatly trimmed in a style common to simple soldiers, trimmed short on the front and sides for comfort under a helmet, longer at the back and held in a simple pony tail.  He had slate grey eyes, although they were closed and unfocused at the moment, and his face was not contorted in fear or anger; he felt more grief that he had failed and that others might suffer and die then he did at the thought of actually dying.<br/><br/>The armour he wore was ancient, seemingly outdated by modern standards.  Handed down from father to son for generations.  As old as the armour was, however, the smith that had first forged it had been brilliant, even by modern standards.  The harness and straps, the interlocking plates and well forged chain were a match for the finest armourers of today.<br/><br/>Beneath the battle worn armour, the breastplate sporting a wide and vicious gash through to his chest beneath, he wore the customary padded jacket and leggings that would help protect him from blunt impacts, the cold, and the constant grind of the straps over shoulders and across hips.  The fabric was worn and near threadbare where straps had rubbed for years, but unlike most armoured warriors he did make a point of cleaning the padding; asides from the frozen blood staining the padding around the wound in his chest, it was relatively clean.<br/><br/>He was a physically fit man, unsurprisingly.  Long years of fighting and training had shaped his body to the task.  Powerful shoulders and arms, callused hands, and his skin was a map of scars.  Many were clearly from battle, most just shallow cuts and lines of marred flesh, but many were from the surgical interest of a black-hearted wizard, a twisted soul of a man who had enslaved countless orcs and goblins some years ago, had captured Kaiyse when he was hardly into his eighteenth year and had gone on for months before he had been rescued and that evil bastard had been slain.<br/><br/>The wound was vicious, but not necessarily mortal.  He only still lived because of the extreme cold of the mountain pass, which had slowed his heart and froze much of the blood to prevent him from bleeding out while he lay in the snow.  The armour had absorbed most of the wyvern's powerful blow, leaving it as little more then a nasty gash that had glanced ribs.  He remained unconscious for the time, too weakened to even bare the thought of waking up, and could well be out for days.