[He does go still, his brow knitting while he strums his roughened knuckles with his fingertips, a cold, distant look settling into his eyes.]

His magic courses through our veins yet; I have found myself wondering if we too shall be longer-lived than most. [Wryly:] ...Assuming we aren't put out of our misery first, one way or another.

[A forgemaster outlasting the violence in Wallachia to die when he is old and grey and limp-dicked strikes him as about as likely to happen as the Belmont turning whip and will against God. A sword through the heart could also be considered death by natural causes, he thinks. Not only more realistic, but a preferable exit.

He glances at Hector after a while, motioning him over with a lazy curl of his fingers. Might as well put him to work.]