[ He tips his head in acknowledgment, and turns away to pace along behind his ignored chair. It has the effect of a creature prowling, all wound-tight silent tension. ]

That's the truth. Maybe you've heard it already. [ That would be interesting. ] Either way, it goes like this...

Like I said, I'm no saint. [ Ha ha, get it. ] But the concept of necromancer and cavalier... it didn't come from nothing.

[ Remina looms, unblinking, her tendrils eddying in the air around her as though in some unseen current. He turns to look at her, and the hard note in his eyes is somehow accusing. This isn't hers to ask of him, but here they are anyway. Point to the Pthumerians. ]

I had a protector, once. A sworn sword. A long time ago.