Nolan glared at him, eyes full of calculating intelligence. A second elapsed, and then three. Nolan's own men were glancing at him with expectation. Swallow had an arrow ready in a bow, as did Beth. Ink was reaching for a pouch, whilst Don's battleaxe was glinting, ready in his two hands.
Even after a full half minute elapsed, Nolan had no answer. Sweat beaded his forehead, and he gave up. "…I cannot catch even a single glimpse. Maybe you are right. Maybe this is who you are meant to be, Vol. But given the circumstances, I do not agree. Your increased strength is a mere coincidence. As a tool, you've lost your value."
"You never had any," Vol said, smiling. "The only tools that I have need of shine silver like steel."
"So it's even given you a poetic tongue, has it?" Nolan said, wiping the sweat from his brow, exhausted. "The mysteries of the mind astound me."
