[ he holds up his hand to consider his gauntlet--and therefore, himself, breathing slow as his senses seem to come back together and sharpen, watching Vergil scramble to remove his glove. he looks curiously at the sigils etched into his hand, knowing them for what they are--and part of him is tempted, so terribly tempted, to rip the man's hand off.

he breathes out and lets the feeling pass.

he wants, more than anything, to trust Vergil Vittore. ]

The King's treasury was truly bottomless. Every weapon every forged by human hands belonged to him, every godly treasure and magic desire... he collected items like most men breathed. [ he looks wry at the though, tilting his head as Vergil asks what class he is--and to be fair, he was saying it as part of the chant. a lot was happening. Vergil probably didn't hear. ]

No. I'm Archer. ... likely on account of the idea of throwing things to fight, and for my nature.

[ independent. prickly. dangerous. he can feel Vergil's magic bolstering his own, and he breathes with a sense of satisfaction, eyes closing as he listens to the thrum of his own existence with a morbid fascination. ]

I doubt you would start to struggle unless I tried to use one of the King's grand powers--and that would likely be done with your knowledge, were I to remember how to do it in the first place.