"My character."
"You prefer the truth?"
"Am I not a philosopher?"
"Hear the truth then, messire, I would not have you for a master."
The man laughed, a quiet, soundless laugh through half-closed lips. There was something magnetic about his grizzled and ironical strength, cased in its shell of blackened steel. He had the air of one who had learnt to toy with his fellows, as with so many strutting puppets. The world was largely a stage to him, grotesque at some seasons, strenuous at others.
"Ha, a miracle indeed," he said, "a woman who can tell the truth."
She ignored the gibe and ran on.
"Your name, messire?"
The man spread his hands.
"Pardon the omission. I am known as Fulviac of the Forest. My heritage I judge to be the sword, and the shadows of these same wilds."