He loosens silk ties, allowing the mask to fall into waiting hand, settling to his side, propped up against a pillow. And he laughs, a light sound, lips curling up into a more generous smile as his eyes darken a touch.

"I came burdened with fruit and purpose, and should both those be dispensed with, make of me what you will. I'm equipped," he says, lazily, "Though compared to some artefacts, less hardy."

An even lazier turn of his hand to the rabbit mask, fecundity and dedication without pause in one.

"When you inherit leadership of the citadel, what are your plans for keeping it in the hands of the living?"