Mech's eyes blinked open slowly, and he raised one dirty hand to rub them; wondering breifly what had woken him, and why he was so sore. looking up, his eyes fell upon Salacia, holding some snared creatures in one hand, the morning sun behind her. Grunting at his stiffness, he straightened, leaning his head back against the wall of the cabin. He stared at her, waiting for her to say something; cast some spell to punish him for trying to leave, laugh at his impotent attempt to do so. His sword, still sheathed, lay on the dewy ground beside him, he made no move to draw it.
After a moment, as it became apparent the necromancer was just as unsure how to proceed as he was, he stood up, awkwardly, picking up his weapon by the sheath. His posture had changed, his shoulders were no longer squared back, his stance had lost the tenseness of a soldier waiting to strike, and though he made no attempt to hide the bitterness in his words, they had lost their threatening air.
"Good morning."