There was little in his past that he held as of the utmost secrecy, or something that may entirely damn him. At least, not in regards to his family and his childhood. Perhaps were there some to see the bloodshed at his hands, then there may be questions.
The answer could, perhaps even would, be one shore in steel.
His story, in fact, due to his position, was relatively well-known. It played out before his eyes now - two young siblings, orphaned at a young age, a house in disarray. Himself, still with the rounded face of childhood, sitting at the head of the table, meeting with advisors whose serpentine smiles were exaggerated in this memory - the memory of a child - more akin to masks than faces.
A scene of him - young, an early combat brought about by a foiled assassination attempt that he had been too naive and inexperienced to foil, covered in blood and holding his family blade too tightly and looking shocked.
He sensed the other’s approach even before he heard him.
At least, he supposed, it was better that it was Tequila. Someone who knew more of him than he would normally let anyone know - and once again that fact was out of his control.
But, how else?
“I assure you,”
“That I am far more confident with a blade than the child in the mist.” In part for Tequila - a way to maintain the egotism that existed between them - and in part for the other footsteps in the mist. Shambling, too far from them to know who it was, or what it was, but hopefully they would stay away.
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