His chin tilts, face just barely moving to the side. Ethereal eyes glance over the man from the corners of them in silent observation. Such armor held vague similarity to entities he knew outside the nine realms but so long ago it was. Malekith could barely remember. Celestials (though nowhere near the appropriate height or stature), and he's not quite sure whom his dislike weighs heavier toward: them or Asgardians. So far this being holds no such nuisance, at least.

Malekith returns their attention back to the tasks at hand. "Indeed," it comes belatedly. If you're a healer then heal. Exchange your time for the time of others. Necessity for necessity. Such materialism seems so... pointless. Perhaps his age, or that those who adopt a physical currency live too short to understand the uselessness of their choices. He does recall, though, there was a time on Midgard where no such thing existed. How or why it does now, Malekith doesn't find himself particularly interested in learning.

"And what are you, then? You're no such mortal." He waves off the suggestion of salvaging for parts. Let others take what he himself hadn't already.