[It's a less limited existence than it might seem, at first glance. Though the body is not his, not truly, it is a simple enough thing to channel the majority of what he might wish to do through the medium of his borrowed flesh. (There had, once, been constraints. But it had been a simple enough thing to remove them, even if he'd then had to spend longer than he would have cared pretending that he had not.)

The pain, on the other hand, is very much real. Long years of grief and regret and sorrow, with naught to do about any of them save press on. To continue to bear them, despite the ever-growing weight of that burden. And yet... he does not acknowledge it, nor the way his very posture itself seems to have begun to bend under that selfsame weight. Instead, there's simply a shrug and another sigh.]

It was hardly my choice. Not at first. Though I'll admit to having grown somewhat accustomed to it.

[He could, perhaps, have chosen to grow it out again. He had done, before, once he'd been made Emperor and had somewhat less of a pressing need to ensure his hair had been short enough to neatly fit inside a helmet. But thus far he has no made any particular effort to do so, either.]

I trust your arrival passed without incident? Or at least, without more than I have been lead to believe would be typical?