[Nimavel Mynendil]

There was undeniable wisdom in the monk’s words, the likes of which reminded the assassin of his intuitive uncle in Daltina. Unlike the latter, though, Kisman was less direct and far more cryptic. Nevertheless, the bronze-skinned Kemite was equally as insightful as the assassin’s long-lived uncle.

Dropping to his knees on the cold marble floor across from Kisman and tucking his feet beneath his bottom, Nimavel’s callused hands alighted atop his thighs. His eyes, leveled with the monk’s own, studied the man with latent intensity. Nilmalas had always said that much could be discerned by simply evaluating another’s stare, and Kisman was no exception to this generalization.

Even now it was self-evident to the Lord Mynendil that this was a true master of the arts sitting in front of him.

“And what has the experience taught you?”

He asked. It was a peculiar way to indulge in a conversation, but one that was surprisingly common to the well-traveled elf lord. Unlike the norm of society who conformed to the rules of general discourse, those of the martial world perceived things that were otherwise usually missed and subsequently their discussions and debates could be categorized as a class of their own.