"If... if you've got old powder to spare," he calls out, breath haggard. A fine thing, to afford tea. These men must be possessed of coin in such wealth that matches their bravery.

He waits until Wei Wuxian's return to accept the cup with shaky hands but a grateful nod, each sip slow, measured. Fear still hiccups his breathing. He must pace himself, then.

"The metal... isn't mine. The silver. The g-gold." But rushed, after, "But the master gives me some, each month, for me. I'll put it aside. I'll make you something fair, a ring? You like a — I have some obsidian, to spare. I want to thank you."