"I think that no matter what I say, you will have already made up your mind." He says, reaching to pluck out one of the sorry-looking rations from their unceremonious pile near the campfire.

The small circular tin is peeled open and he briefly considers its contents. They appear to be somewhere between dehydrated and slick with fluid. A sickly-looking green and white mass of unknown origins. Emet-Selch tosses it aside with a disgusted guttural noise. Though he's hungry he has not yet reached the point where he is that hungry.

"I have told you my exact intentions, as I always have. Though you seem to loath taking me at my word." He looks at her sidelong and squints in a moment of concentration. Why can he still not see the light within her, threatening to break free? "Perhaps you could be just as courteous and indulge me in what you intend to do?"