One brow arched slightly, for a man who kept most of his face hidden by that scarf, with only his eyes and brows, he was able to demonstrate, or at least imitate many emotions. it was not visible when he had been strapped down, but now that he could walk about, sorting through items on the tables, it was apparent: The flesh had been pealed from his back in neat strips long ago, the 'rot holes' across his forehead looked more like rough abrations, as if the skin was ground away with friction. All in all, he was more a decoration of pain the shell of rot. "Kill you?" He chimed, in that rough tone of voice, weighing the practicality of the cleavers for combat... "No, it's bad practice, to kill an ally, when trapped... In enemy territory..." Slowly turning to regard her. "I need my gear." He stated, as if this was old, annoying news... Reaching out, he pointed the cleaver at her, a clean weapon in bloody hands... Or was claws a better term?<br/><br/>"Help me, retrieve them... And your payment, will be great." Even hunched as he was, he was tall, seeming more like a coiled snake... Relaxed yet ready to strike...<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>