"I can take you to the boundaries of their bindings on me; no further. And I can keep you safe... perhaps." Perhaps. Well, finding out will be interesting. If not, well, he can extract the lot of them quickly enough, should he choose to do so.

"Don't fret, járnsíða. I owe the good doctor a debt, and debts I cannot stand. Messy things." Járnsíða. Iron-sides. Obvious on the surface, but also a joke. Defensive. Prickly. Rigid.

Brittle.

"You may always trust me to do what is best for me," he says sincerely, an utter lie but one that's easy to believe, and convenient under the circumstances.

And so he sketches a bow, plays the scapegrace, and offers both his hands, palms up, to his companions.

"I'll take you as far as I can." If they trust him. It's simply enough done -- just a tug, just a nauseating jaunt through the spaces between things, spaces where nothing is anything, directionality and spatial reasoning have no meaning at all, and out the other end in the blink of an eye. But only within the area that is clear to him. Part of the way, but nowhere near all of it. Whatever they've done to fog his senses restricts him also to this place.