It's too small for his shoulders. Altaïr can see that right away. He passes it over his face to take the sting of saltwater out of his eyes and wraps it around his waist. He attempts to stand, and only manages a fawn-like stumble towards the nearest unattended satchel. (He is otherwise unhurt, unblemished except for various scars.) Without a care for whose it might be, he opens it and rummages.

"This one is all food in some sort of... strange paper."

He does not have time to marvel at the art upon something labeled Extreme Salt & Vinegar. He tosses the whole bag with the sound of crinkling plastic towards Maria to inspect and reaches for another.

"...These are mine." He knows it with the first brush of calloused fingers on linen. He tugs a piece of travel-dusted white robe edged with black embroidery halfway out of the bag and fully looks up at Maria, brows knitting, troubled.

"You did not specifically pack our things to escape the ship, did you? I have no memory of this."

She has proven herself an ally, so it is not that which is in question. Only the rest of this entire situation.