Utterly Mad

Tyrid's eyelids open slowly, heavily, tenants on a face aged by experience and hardship. He blinks once, twice, turns his helmeted head to one side, then the other, and calmly yawns through the iron bars covering his visage. "Well. Unexpected, to say the least." He mutters. Not to the others chained to the wall with him. Just words for the sake of words. He takes another small glance at the chains on his right wrist, and, bracing his biceps, pulls at them experimentally, hoping the rust and corrosion of age has weakened them.