Not one week back Wrench was traipsing a volcanic landscape and watching his fellow Summoned work together in an effort to heal draconic hatchlings. He ought to know by now that this place is nothing like the world he came from. For some reason, though, he still expects it to operate by the same rules. Wrench still believes that if anyone were to discover the things he did before coming to this place, he'd be the next corpse burned to ash in the middle of the commune. Despite the kinds of lives others have managed to create for themselves here in Solvunn, his own feels finite and limited. He can scarcely begin to imagine what else he could do for himself when there are no options available to him back home. Just subsist. Stay on the run and avoid capture. Never let yourself need to come up for air.

Don't ever let anyone tell you you're not every bit as smart as you look.

He stalls his next step, just in case Sandor decides to take a swing at him for that. It puts Wrench an extra pace behind the taller man, but he's quick to catch back up when he's sure any retribution for the joke won't be overly-painful.

Maybe I'm just curious. They say magic in this place comes from the Gods, but it seems like everyone except me arrived already magical.