Bastien hardly ever looks angry, and certainly not now. He looks defeated. When spoken to by the guards he tries to muster up good-humored, cooperative manners without meeting their eyes. Hours after they've been deposited in their cells, there's still blood crusted in his mustache and the crevices around his nose, and he's cradling the useless arm attached to his dislocated shoulder.

Then the guard on duty starts snoring, head tilted back against the wall behind her stool. Bastien watches her for a few seconds, searching for signs of faking, before lifting his arm and maneuvering it to return ball to socket as swiftly as if he'd practiced it in a mirror a dozen times before getting captured. He doesn't wince. And without moving from where he's seated he starts creeping his hand along the stones that make up the wall. Feeling the mortar for gaps, tapping a fingernail to test for hollow cavities he only has a hope of hearing with his good ear pressed against the wall. That means turning his head, which in turn means looking at Teren.

The smile he aims at her is much smaller and much sharper than the one he's dredged up to perform miserable compliance for the guards.

"That can't be good for your health," he murmurs—the rage. Seems stressful. Never mind if he's as tightly wound as anyone (or more so) underneath the act; hypocrisy is his right as an Orlesian.