Nero nodded his acquiescence wordlessly, all the while carefully concealing a certain incredulousness. He'd obviously heard of the Sultansworn before--tales of paladins in shining armour, defenders of Ul'dah's sovereignty, righteous and mighty. The smuggler had never actually seen them practice conjury, however; he had assumed that the story of the paladins having skill in magic had been fictional, an exaggeration with which to enamour the populace.
Admittedly, Nero knew little about conjury. He'd only ever been to Gridania once, and that was such a brief visit that he might as well have never stepped into the city at all. What he did know from his training as a thaumaturge, though, was that learning to manipulate aether was never a case of talent or inborn skill--it required dedication and careful study. To devote oneself to such rigorous application of both sword and sorcery was something to which the word "admirable" felt woefully inadequate. Though Nero's ego wouldn't allow it to expand too far, he did begin to feel a certain amount of grudging respect for Roen, naivete and all.
The smuggler grimaced, flipping the ramshackle door to the shack closed, as he positioned himself to kneel perpendicular to the man against the wall. With a sense of practice, Nero held his left arm across the man's chest, just below his collarbone, and his right arm across his thighs. With a knee he pinned the man's right hand to the ground to prevent any flailing.
Nero lifted his hand briefly to tilt the man's head to face him. "Look at me," he said softly, gesturing to his face, his earrings, the gaudy streaks of orange in his hair, anything that might distract the man from the ordeal to come. "Guess you don't see many people like me around, huh? Focus on the contrast." With a finger, he tapped his head where the black locks met the fiery orange ones, before giving a small jerk of his head to provoke a jingle from his earrings. "Focus on the sound." The man didn't nod, but Nero noticed that his irises dilate in an attempt to focus on the smuggler's directions.
Nero returned his right arm to pin down the man's legs, clasping the unfortunate man's left hand, as Nero nodded at the paladin to begin.
Admittedly, Nero knew little about conjury. He'd only ever been to Gridania once, and that was such a brief visit that he might as well have never stepped into the city at all. What he did know from his training as a thaumaturge, though, was that learning to manipulate aether was never a case of talent or inborn skill--it required dedication and careful study. To devote oneself to such rigorous application of both sword and sorcery was something to which the word "admirable" felt woefully inadequate. Though Nero's ego wouldn't allow it to expand too far, he did begin to feel a certain amount of grudging respect for Roen, naivete and all.
The smuggler grimaced, flipping the ramshackle door to the shack closed, as he positioned himself to kneel perpendicular to the man against the wall. With a sense of practice, Nero held his left arm across the man's chest, just below his collarbone, and his right arm across his thighs. With a knee he pinned the man's right hand to the ground to prevent any flailing.
Nero lifted his hand briefly to tilt the man's head to face him. "Look at me," he said softly, gesturing to his face, his earrings, the gaudy streaks of orange in his hair, anything that might distract the man from the ordeal to come. "Guess you don't see many people like me around, huh? Focus on the contrast." With a finger, he tapped his head where the black locks met the fiery orange ones, before giving a small jerk of his head to provoke a jingle from his earrings. "Focus on the sound." The man didn't nod, but Nero noticed that his irises dilate in an attempt to focus on the smuggler's directions.
Nero returned his right arm to pin down the man's legs, clasping the unfortunate man's left hand, as Nero nodded at the paladin to begin.
