"We'll see how long that lasts." Wry, but not self-conscious.

As he finally pries the buckles apart and pulls his arms free, it's clear what he means. It's been a long, dangerous trip without much time for rest or proper washing. Healing closes wounds but doesn't clean blood, soot or sweat.

He gives himself a second after that, grimacing as he stretches his arms and massages his muscles. Beneath the residue of violence and exhaustion, he's littered with scars. Most healed cleanly, the way magic would, but some look nasty - as if he didn't have magic left to spare, or was holding it in reserve.