He's cleaner than he was, differently dressed in loose, fleecy clothes - a brown sweater beneath a blue hooded jacket; he feels the cold. His hair's rough and a little frizzy, and stands out around his thin face in an unenthusiastic halo; the raw, cracked skin on his hands has calmed down a little, and now they're just spotted with pink weals, over the knuckles and along the edges. The sword's still slung at his side, but it's out of sight.
The small bowl he's slowly making his way through is mostly soup, with rice submerged beneath it and some green onion sliced on top. There's a complicated-looking giant purple book open on the table in front of him.
The quiet luxury all around him feels less uncanny than it did, but it's still bad enough. It's as if he's dead.
[[OOC: private to chilichoc.]]