One could learn nearly anything about a person if they knew what they were looking for. Observing from the shadows was much easier than outright asking about how a creature behaved. His eyes were constantly searching for movement to latch onto, be it a nervous fidget, habitual tic, or subtle shift in posture that relayed more information to him than could be said aloud. Partially to be on the lookout for any sudden moves to grab him, yank him up by the scruff, and drag him to exchange his head for a bounty, and partially select his targets. Who was the weakest based on the uncertain way they slouched, who was the slowest based on their shuffling gait, who wasn't aware of their surroundings and could be ambushed. The thought process was ingrained into his mind, to the point where he couldn't help but take silent notes on every face that entered his blurred, ever-watching vision. Not to brag, but with centuries of practice, Beck could admit he probably knew more about his peers then they did themselves. Probably. He was selectively observant after all.

    And Amaranth had piqued his interest. She wasn't alone; an unseen glare was staring her down from a shadowed corner. The bunkers did indeed come in handy for keeping unwanted visitors hostage. Beck wouldn't want to be trapped down here himself -- labyrinthine and expansive, he could barely navigate the abandoned hallways. And it smelled like rotten food. Amaranth wouldn't be able to exit the underground shelter without his assistance, and really, the only reason she was tethered was because it was intimidation. The sight of the shackles made his throat tighten and wrists painfully aware of the black-iron cuffs cutting into his bloodless skin, but Beck shook away his thoughts and focused on observing for any sign she had been planning on spying for the Typhoon. While he was firm in his suspicions, he had no evidence. Or she was a good actor.

    By the time her sobs had stretched on for more than a couple minutes, the poltergeist was bored. If we carve out her tear ducts, then she won't cry anymore! A venomous voice suggested in a tempting tone, but Beck was better than that, he wasn't going to listen anymore. Instead, he approached, materializing from the stale air with only a blank expression on scarred features. He didn't attack or tease or even speak, only stopped to blink owlishly down at her hunched form. "Why d'ya keep cryin'?" The feeble wheeze that broke the tense silence wasn't edged with maliciousness, nor the bitterness commonly lacing his hoarse words. Just a mumbled croon that was awkward coming from his disfigured maw. He almost appeared to be just as young as he had been when he kicked the bucket, until he recovered and wrinkled his snout in a failed attempt to appear threatening.