If she moved to escape his grip, he would not stop her. Though he lowed down, he never stop his casual walk, although, it was hard to define that ghostly motion walking. Though, as she spoke of his 'injury' he lifted the would be damaged hand, staring first at the torn glove, then giving a passing inspection to the appendage. He seemed, disinterested, or uncaring about her offer for a time. "I can, mend it later... No need, to busy yourself, with my well being. As her eyes inspected his garb more closely, she might have noticed them... Countless stab or cut damages to the leather armor, all old and mended over. Entire sections were gone here or there, patched over and fogotten. The severity of injuries like that, and yet he showed no outward hint, or care really. And that was just his sleeve, as the rest of his body was masked over by the number of cloaks.<br/><br/>Finally, it seemed he found what he wanted, a quiet, out of the way alcove in the upper ring of the Trade Quarters. Leaning against the gray stone wall, he was conveniently face as to watch their death knight companion and the finely dressed warrior... And of course Norbert the head. "Let not, the words of others, define you... Be it you, who defines their words." The wounded hand extended, if she chose to heal it. His gaze constantly moved, wondering hte crowd, keeping tabs on guards, only pausing when he regarded her... For a momet, one brow rose.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>