The warm expression turns slightly pained. He had sort of expected Emet-Selch to be rendered powerless upon arrival here, just as it seemed everyone did, but the confirmation still stings. It's normal for him to be weak – though he dislikes being without even his soulsight, arguably his one real talent – but to hear that the most powerful man he knows has been robbed of his magicks...it's a disquieting feeling.

“Hmm,” Hythlodaeus says, keeping his tone light. He can at least offer this to his friend; “Fortunately, I have been told that such things are temporary. There are those among us who have already regained their various strengths, through time or negotiation with their faction leaders...hmm?”

He follows Emet-Selch's gaze. To the dark, collared shirt, the hooded half-cloak, the chunky boots. And brightens up immediately.

Conformance and modesty may have been the watchwords of Ancient society, but Hythlodaeus has never been particularly great at them, and they're not home anymore, so why bother? He swishes the skirt back and forth for Emet-Selch, nearly preening.

"Why, this is fashion, my dear!”

Tell him he looks pretty, Emet-Selch.

Do it.