"I have known men like that," Hector replies, a cool, but soft chuckle dancing across his voice. "'Tis most unwise to judge someone by their appearance alone, particularly when they aim a weapon toward you."

It's once more that the Forgemaster speaks from experience. As a man of scarcely eighteen summers, he'd commanded his first battle under Dracula's banner. Small it had been, but not small enough that an untested general could escape without issue. He'd cornered a straggler at the battle's end, and after thinking a dagger was no match for his sword, rushed in to finish him. Victory had luckily been his. But the jagged gash on his leg taught him lessons only experience could.

Ever watchful, he circles around to Firo's other side, blunted blade again resting against his shoulder. "Be mindful of your wrist again." A thoughtful pause, another chuckle. "But if you think this to be a strange distance, I suppose 'tis for the best I did not bring longswords."