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The aesthetic weapon found place inside of his hand, and as Aurion scrutinized the trimmings, the estranged craftsmanship, he snarled a soft chuckle. "Moreillian," he said to no one in particular. His voice was raspy, hardened with the strain of survival, but wet with the black oils that seeped from his chest. The .48 caliber Slug Pistol was indeed, a familiar piece. His people had charted such weapons, such designs, much before he had become what he was. The weapon of the Moreillian Enforcers. This taste of history, was welcoming, more endearing than the strips of wood that lay without flame to heat these walls. Reaper, as they knew him, holstered the bone-carved weapon into a pouch buried inside his Moreillian oilcoat. The black knee-length duster flowed loosely across the grey-aureate plates of armor he garnished. He dipped low and adjusted the small knife in his leather boots, before returning to his full standing posture, settling the hilt of another blade tied to his back. "Tch," He turned and nodded, acknowledging the Mandalorian yet ignoring the question altogether. "Who are we killing this time?"