[Suzerain of Sheol]

The Fisher King stares at her for a moment longer, bows his head and suppresses a sigh. She is his Master, after all.

"Merely know, my lady, that covering such wounds doth naught for the anguish that I bear. I prefer to wear my suffering as a mantle, spun by cruelest fate, but for thy sake, I shall gird myself more befitting of thy noble company."

Pelles slowly raises his head, and as he does, power streams from his sores, his lacerations and stigmata, his eyes and mouth, forming around his cadaverous frame in a chrysalis of dun feathers. It lasts merely an instant, the inverse molting sheathing his entire body until the magic subsides, taking form and hardening into his kingly armor. So very, very regal...

Fresh blood runs from beneath the crown of thorns upon his brow, trickling into the ruin of his eye, down his stained and battered armor. Such as he is, it will have to suffice.