Tarn does as he’s asked and lugs the canister over to the fire, arranging it so that is is steady, before going back to the sled to root through the leftover scraps. His fingers quickly find the brush; it’s old and worn but more than he could have hoped for.

Tarn settles down by the fire, soaking in the warmth as he begins scrubbing and brushing weeks of caked on dirt from his plating. He finds himself paying extra attention to his joints and in between his treads. It’s an oddly peaceful moment as he enjoys the feeling of soft bristles and listens to the walls rattle and bend in the wind, accompanied by the quiet crackle of the fire.

His optics dim as he indulges in a moment of contentment, letting his stress be brushed away with the dirt; if only for a little while.