Tarn watches Spinister critically from the corner of his eye. He really should not allow that attitude to stand, it’s just promoting insolence. But, he just can’t bring himself to fuss over it at the moment and finds himself slowly relaxing into the warmth of the cloth as it wipes at the back of his helm.

He sets to work purposefully scrubbing under his chin and around his jaw, careful around the welds covering his throat. It still stings when the cloth dabs gently over the healing wound, although he acknowledges that it may be slightly psychosomatic.

Tarn knows what needs to come net. His face is filthy under his mask, catching and keeping dust in its confines. Everything desperately needs to be washed, including the inside of the mask itself.

“Turn away, Spinister, i require a bit of privacy for a few moments. “

Tarn doesn’t wait for a response before his fingers reach up to the clasps, watching for Spinister to turn his back.