Vincent is trying not to breathe too heavily the scent of meat has his face buried in the collar of his cloak, largely unreadable. His eyes are still red, he sounds normal; no mouthful of teeth to compensate for. For many it might take a second glance to realize he has a tail at all thanks to the long train of worn fabric.

The tip of it lashes in absent tics. He seems not to notice nor be thrown off by it.

The former Turk studies Sephiroth for a long moment; far longer than necessary to suggest he's wary. Not that he isn't, but his interests fall elsewhere as well.

"Sure." Why not? That's what he means. Or he'll help out. Slowly he paces first toward the collection of containers, then to the water's edge. There will be some dedication to the task, crouched and mostly turned toward the process of collecting the water.

"....It doesn't help."

The words drift back. Quiet, moderate.