"Unlikely, yes. Impossible, no. I shall not take your word it, if I hear from the mouth of my Exarch that I am to return to the shrine, to cast aside the war mask of blood and death; then I shall." His mind lit up again as the parts required to function did so in front of the war mask: his cognative ability, ideas, memories of his training with simmered as his body remembered all through perfect muscle rememberance, several shreds of his former life as Korlandril the Artist remained behind the wall of the war mask and occasionally seeped through. "As I said, I am a prisoner. Alaitoc will divine what needs be and I will either be bartered for or recued."
To humans perhaps, but they have little knowledge of their minds. he retorts mentally.