It seems, the longer this conversation continued, the less patience she has for his attempts at small talk. Lysander is effectively distracted at the sight of the showers, a vast room with devices sprinkling water, nothing like the novelty of the things he was familiar with. "Right," he says, and finds an empty stream of water, hot against skin chilled by stale air, soon pink and free of the bluish goop, the plush towel wrapped around his waist as he glances once more at his arm. There are others moving purposefully towards lockers that lay beyond the shower area, and others more like himself, looking a little lost and bewildered at this whole ordeal. Gathering himself up, Lysander strides into the hallway, eyes skipping along the numbers of lockers. 123. The door opens without difficulty, and within he finds the uniform that others seem to be donning, and beneath it, some of his own possessions.

He scowls at the sight of the elaborate jewelry that encompassed the hearthstone he is so used to wearing for ceremonial purposes, and tosses it back in with disgust, opting instead to merely pull on the uniform, towel draped over his head to rub at damp hair once he's fastened the pants. What good is the Heart of the Realm when he has been, by all accounts, and if Shepard is to be believed, far removed from anywhere that would make the thing even usable? He is, however, glad to see his shortbow, finely crafted and as well cared for as he had last left it, along with a quiver of arrows, fletched with golden eagle feathers. These he leaves, picking up the small, squarish device propped up against the side of the locker, quite out of place among the relics of Creation, and squints at the thing with a scowl, twisting it around.