He forces a stare from retreating skull –

(Uncurls his fingers. Count: One, two, three,)

"Cedric," When he reaches to shake, it's with the familiar callus of sword and shield; newer bumps marking a year's braced pen. Belated, "They told me y'could use a hand."

With this specific scene. Buckles and straps and armor; tricky sometimes, before a century's disuse. He's not Diplomacy's finest, but Cedric's the only one wears plate.

"Dunno for tea, though."

A joke. A thin smile. He's trying.