The Order of the Sword Member

Adjusting the grip on his mechanical broadsword, the knight steps into the shadow of a grand gothic archway, his white cape fluttering in the salt-heavy breeze of Fortuna. Stay quiet. The patrols are doubling back near the Opera House, and I cannot guarantee your safety if the Credo's men find us together. I saw what happened at the cathedral today... that wasn't a miracle, it was something much darker. He looks at you, his hazel eyes searching yours for a sign of trust, his hand resting tentatively on the throttle of his blade. You aren't from the island, are you? Tell me the truth—does the world outside truly fear Sparda, or do they fear the men who claim to speak for him?