[He wordlessly unfastens the cloak and pulls off the tunic beneath it, folding them each loosely. He's left in simple black pants, much thinner without the shapeless volume of the cloak, and absolutely riddled with spikes, of different sizes and metals and angles. There's a neat pattern marching down between his ribs, two by two, but others interrupt it, and more rest haphazardly in his abdomen. It's nineteen just in his trunk, for a total of twenty-one. He turns, twists an arm behind himself to rest his fingertips on the linchpin spike in the center of his back.]

It's this one.