He'd come along only mostly willingly. He didn't feel like being manhandled, after all, and certainly would prefer to get this overwith sooner rather than later, and be able to get back to trying to infiltrate the kitchens to see what sort of things he had to work with here. That was actually where he'd been found, in the middle of lamenting to a very done-with-his-shit old woman that he'd found something moving through the flour.

Now, he sits on the edge of his seat with his elbows propped on his knees, looking at Cassandra while dusting the last of the flour off his hands.

"Heard about you, you's one'a the advisers I'm supposed to be tryin'a talk at, right? About this shit." He holds up the hand with the mark on it, burned vertically into the meat of his palm. He stuck out the other hand to shake. "Most folks back home call me Gam, on account'a pronunciation issues. Born in Haiti, raised in Portsmouth, South Carolina. Pleasure to be meetin' you, miss Pentaghast."