[ To Gideon, who was there for his rejuvenation from nothing but a pink mist, one of the problems must be immediately apparent; he's in a blood sweat trying to heal himself, pale and dizzy beneath the dappled red. The muscle House had stripped from his thigh has mostly returned to where it should, but the wound is still closing, the blood and gore around the room not yet back in his body. Though not all of it's his - the construct of flesh he tried to make from Bertie Rooster's remains is collapsed in a vile puddle of meat and black feathers.

He's barely clothed, grim modesty in the clutch of a ruined bedsheet, though he's hunting through the wreckage of an armour for a new pair of pants. ]

Sorry, just a sec.

[ A touch breathless as he pulls them on, covering up his thigh injury without even a wince. ]

I had it — I really thought I had it. And then it just teleported past the wards like they were nothing.