[He crouches back down with her, caught off guard, a little, by how earnest she is about it. It isn't bad, just— he's not used to it, that kind of fascination with something like this: something important to him, but (maybe justifiably) mundane to anyone else.]

... Sure. If you want. [A little awkward. He pulls his breastplate back into his lap— then, somewhat belatedly, shifts it so she can see better. Patches of it are covered with the same sandy dirt from the riverbank.] Blighted spiders must have some kind of— poison, or acid, or whatever. See where it's corroded? [He points; beneath the sand, patches of the metal are flaky and discolored.] Leave that alone and it'll bugger up the whole plate. Split right down the middle one day, and then you've got a knife in your heart.

[Or spindly spider leg. Or whatever.]