"No," Distracted, buckle slipping through his hands. The old skeleton creaks its jaw open and shut again; critique, else dull reflex. Click. Click, "No, thank you, uh. Manfred."

The glance he throws doesn't try for a smile. It'd only come out wrong, and anyway, this lot's grinning for the room. He reaches again, fixes the helmet about sluggish chin. Click. Cedric pushes out a breath, then finally steps back. A hand finds his neck, unconscious; finds it whole and attached and awake.

(Buck the fuck up, Carsus.)

"Y'must know this place inside and out," Other than the hall, other than its archways. Other than what lies beyond — "What d'you reckon keeps it safe?"