Unbeknownst to Horst, a similar line of thought runs through Nuada's mind. What is it, who does it think it is, what is its purpose. He's seen the display at the so-called museum, and this man here is obviously not that - which begs the question of where he differentiates himself from the rotting mob of seeming mindless determination.

As previously noted: new. Treat. Perhaps there's some manner of magic involved, or a pact, or any odd-numbered other things a young man can find himself falling headlong into.

At least, Nuada surmises, it knows manners. "I am Prince Nuada Silverlance of Clan Bethmoora. 'Sire' will suffice, if you prefer standing on formality. Having said that, I've no dominion over you nor this place; I couldn't possibly tell you what name to call me by."