For a man oft likened to an automaton, Zephirin is astonishingly popular a topic of conversation for Ishgard's wagging tongues. His admirers sigh with longing over his elusive heart, painting him so virtuous and noble a knight that he is as flawless marble, an unfailing champion of the faith, beyond earthly wants. Others speculate that Ser Zephirin but wears a carefully constructed mask — his chosen blade points to his true face beneath. No doubt the young archimandrite of the Heavens' Ward has ambitions of his own.
As he stops at the foot of the steps leading to the Vault, half turned toward Felih, Zephirin does nothing to disprove any rumour that he truly is an automaton, his expression politely neutral, his thoughts concealed. He notes the Warrior of Light's wariness, and suspects that the man has returned to the Hoplon not by chance. After a moment, he turns to face Felih fully, inclining his head in lieu of a deeper bow.
"Yes. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
The Warrior of Light is the talk of all Ishgard, of late, but hearsay merely supplements one's own observations.
no subject
As he stops at the foot of the steps leading to the Vault, half turned toward Felih, Zephirin does nothing to disprove any rumour that he truly is an automaton, his expression politely neutral, his thoughts concealed. He notes the Warrior of Light's wariness, and suspects that the man has returned to the Hoplon not by chance. After a moment, he turns to face Felih fully, inclining his head in lieu of a deeper bow.
"Yes. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
The Warrior of Light is the talk of all Ishgard, of late, but hearsay merely supplements one's own observations.