Dispiriting: very much. Maddening: at times. And the cellar is, one might generously call it, humble. But he doesn't mind it. There are good things to think on, such as having a brain again. Being without one is rather like lacking any pouch or pocket—it's possible to live that way, but far easier to keep track of your notions when they're all in one place. And the muscles of the face and throat and abdomen that allow one to speak, those are very good to have. More valuable, still, is having company to listen to your efforts. Speaking of which—

The answer to Dettlaff's query comes on a wheezing breath, thin as reedsong.

"Oh— there you are. I was just thinking of you."

Emiel Regis, such as he is, resembles little more than a cloudy-eyed bag of bones in a nest of fabric and fur; should any nomad come stumbling down here (heaven help them), he could easily play the corpse. But he seems sharper tonight, even at a glance, than he has been since he was first interred here.

Well. At Dettlaff's glance. Almost anyone else would find him horrifying to look on.

"I'm—" Stirring to lever himself up, determined, his mouth (such as it is) becoming a thin line of effort. There: upright. Sort of. "—as well as can reasonably be expected. Is that the fecundity of nature I smell?"

Olfactory organs: also good. Miraculous, in fact.