Though he largely prefers to spend time by himself, blending into a crowd and hiding in plain sight is a skill he'd rather not lose, even if he doesn't like to consider from whence that skill came. It takes shape here and now as taking meals about the city now and again, listening to the chatter of others, belonging without actually belonging all without looking like he doesn't belong. A delicate balance perhaps, but another way he tries to keep his skills sharp.

He'll need them again, he knows. He might not know exactly when or exactly how, but he doesn't trust this place at all.

Quite frankly, he's surprised it's taken this long for someone to ask, even considering his self-imposed distance from others. He glances up at the other man, taking what measure he could from appearance — not that it means much. Far too many of them bear words across their skin, and words hardly tell the entire picture.

"It's not armor." And, because he can anticipate what he thinks the next question will be: "It's my arm."