Wrath cocks his head quizzically. He's heard the word 'prosthetics' tossed around in this place often enough to have gleaned that it's effectively the same thing, but a mild correction still pops out of him out of reflex.

"It's automail."

Her offer is what finally reels him in, though-- it's a bit of a walk back to the inn where he and the rest of his ragtag household are staying on this trip, and he can still... mostly see the big broadcasting screen if he leans a little, so... into the warmth of the booth he steps!

Even outside of his relatively-new aches and pains, no (former) Homunculus is a fan of the cold.

"When the metal gets cold, it starts to feel like... like... mn. Feels bad."