Bariyan had to look, too. He hadn't had any destination in mind when he'd started stumbling away from the city, hadn't meant to go anywhere but away for the past -- week, or so. However long it had been.

The moors were still grey, hazy, and devoid of all sign of life, sloping downwards as he looked east towards the horizon. Nothing for miles save for overgrown trails and struggling grass. He thought he knew which way the city was from here, but it would be a long walk back.

"Outlands," he said. He gestured southwards. "The city is miles that way."

He pulled his shirt off as he spoke. The movement disturbed the medallion now around his neck and he paused to look down at it. Then he finished the motion, pulling his shirt down over Martin's head instead. It was big enough to almost reach Martin's knees, but the cloth was thin, ragged; Bariyan did not take good care of his clothes. Still, it would have to do for now.

He meant to move on -- but he still hadn't the strength to do so. He kept looking at Martin, the new eyes, new flesh, all the worried lines smoothed out and gone... was that really Martin? Was this still only some dream that he would soon wake from? He feared that he would, and still hoped that he would not.