The problem with that is that he is more than just his pan-cracks. More than just a fear figure. Especially since he's not even that yet.

He grins and hops off the bench. "LOOK FORWARD TO THE TALE, HELMSMAN. A Grand Highblood," the roll of the name from his tongue delights him still, "must see to the clubs of this motherfucking place, AND BRING ABOUT RIGHTEOUS CACOPHONY OF TRAINING FOR THE DEATH SONGS TO BE." As he says this he gives a half-bow. And then, he turns to leave the Helmsman to his thoughts, and a view of yellow and indigo blood dried on the floor.