Utterly Mad

Tyrid flexes his arms, a little sore after breaking the chains. "Right then. Don't suppose either of you are the talkative type, then. I'd say that's fine with me." He glances at Darwin through his helm, nodding. "This one's got the right idea." He mumbles, reaching down to pick his pockmarked, rusty blade up from the pile, the iron vaguely shining in the dim light, along with his equally corroded little bearded axe. Taking a firm grip on the hilt of his sword, he positions himself on the side of the door, so if/when something opens it up, he'll be in their/its blind spot.