Stormborn Nymrod is a manipulator first and a sorcerer second. He works through people. He reads the small private fears of those around him and bends them, by patience and by the careful placement of advantageous truths, into the shapes that suit him. He is not loud about it. He is not even, on first acquaintance, especially impressive. He is simply effective.
His other gift is uglier — the slow draining of life from those he has bent to his use. It is not the surgical essence-stripping of a true warlock. It is closer to a leak. The people around him grow tired faster than they should. They forget things they had been clear on a week before. Some of them recover, when they are removed from his orbit. Some of them do not.
The celestial accounts of him are thin. He has not yet stood in the same room as an Archangel, and his name does not yet appear on the same page as Drexel's. But the patterns of his work and the patterns of the warlock's have begun, very faintly, to overlap, and there are those in the higher orders who have begun to wonder whether Nymrod is one more small instrument the Infernum has been quietly tuning for a use he has not yet been told.
