"I see." It's in the tone in which someone else might say how interesting. "Then it seems you must add my name to that count as well, for while the man I know to be the Warrior of Light is also viera, he is not of any of the Woods." And if one were to imply that he was a paladin, he might well combust on the spot, though saying so to one who took up the shield might not go over as well.

"And those who are truly to blame and dead, some twice over, and beyond our reach," they say to his words, the tone one of agreement but with no small hint of bitterness. "And of those who remain, picking the evil from the fooled is a task that will outlast most of them." They shift their head, meeting his eyes directly, the white reflective like moonlight. "I won't hold your impressions of my people against you; I daresay we deserve most of them. But I do appreciate the effort."

It does no good, to pretend it's nothing, to act as though there is no reason for his trepidation. Equally clear is it that he's trying, anyway.

And so they acknowledge his holding the door with a smile and the faintest dip that might once have been a curtsey, at odds with the way the plates of their armor clink with the motion. "I should like to see the sky, if nothing else," they reply. "The high ground is so often best for getting one's bearings."