"I don't believe," the Blade begins, unamicably, a large gloved hand descending on his shoulder then closing, "you've ever shared the details of your person to me. Mind telling me precisely who you are, and what you do?" The touch keeping him in place is not tight. But it offers the dry suggestion that it very much could, the way the jagged outline of a trap tells very well of its potential. Still; she is austere, yes, as Melchior often is, yet not displeased. For the moment.
For a man noted for his stature many times, he feels as remarkably small when the towering Blade closes in. It’s one thing for a wild beast to loom over him, or a bandaged brute with barely a word to speak, but the face looking down at the wayfarer is decidedly human: a frigid stare positioned like a shrouding cloud on a windless day. The thunder of her voice is distant, bearing the finer intricacies of speech and intonation, and it makes the sight all the stranger.
Cayin swaps the hand over his cane. The object stands at the same side her gauntleted hand now rests on his shoulder, and where his glove is slightly thicker.
“Ah- my apologies. I am,” His fingers find the edge of his hat, and though a polite tip would normally follow, he instead chooses to lift it so it won’t stand between their eyes. He feels she may favour swift compliance over the niceties. “Cayin. Private courier, and investigator. Here on the latter service.”
As he speaks, he begins to brace for the possibility that the weight upon him precedes a tighter grasp. The ease with which she could enforce it makes it almost seem an accomplishment that her touch does not feel crushing. Yet.
Still, Cayin does not try to move away.
“I... came to verify some rumors. About miraculous healing practices, and sightings of strange animals ranging from large wolves to- rarer things. I can tell you about my findings, if you’d like. It’s probably common knowledge to locals...”