Blood seeps from his temple down his face, his throat, into his hair. The mask sunk into bone and would not be moved, not by his hands and not by his chisel - he left a bloody mess in the forge, fighting the helmet and the abduction in that order, no more gentle with himself than his abductor. His head aches and he can barely see out, ignoring the revelers, acquainting himself with the walls of the tower by feel, methodical and as patient as a man wishing badly for a hammer can be.

There must be a way out.

(The first lesson he learned in Baedal was that magic doesn't care for his 'must'. It does him no good, now, so he sets it aside.)