Uninterested in a fight, Tarn releases Spinister. With an air of disdain, he peels the wet rag away from where it landed, partially draped over the chevron of his mask, glaring over his shoulder as he stands to get at the backs of his thighs.

“Oh, don’t be so theatrical, you act like I was trying to rip your arm off. “ He quickly finishes up his bath, working down his legs, hips and aft, paying special attention to the cleanliness of his crippled knee. Bes to keep the injury as clean as possible; a rust infection is the last thing he needs right now.

Satisfied with the state of his frame for the first time since his exile, Tarn lets out a sigh of contentment. But, of course there is still work to be done

Tarn doesn’t even turn around as he crooks a finger at Spinister, beckoning him closer.

“A moment of your time, if you will.”