At first, she was about to decline, make an excuse as to why her staff should stay right where it was. He was suspicious, that much was obvious. As she opened her mouth to reject him, she instead found herself following his gesture to what leaned on the wall, and she found her eyes widening a fraction. The hold itself seemed ordinary enough, but not just any walking stick—as far as she knew—would be adorned in such a way at its head. Was he too, then…?
She remained silent a moment, swallowing slightly before giving a small shake of her head.
"…. No, ser. Not at all."
Her tone was still hesitant, unsure, but she did not retract her statement. A slender hand emerged from the blue of her cloak and grabbed the staff at her side. Feeling the coolness of the weighty metal beneath the shielding cloth it was wrapped in, the etch of its binding, she clutched at it out of habit, a mage’s comfort, before setting it out across the table. As she retracted her hands, Nanna’s smaller frame tensed, bracing herself for whatever reaction might yet come. “Be careful with that end,” came the soft warning, gesturing to where the right side came to something of a point.
Concern was evident, playing along the young woman’s features and he was no fool to it. Ever observant, he remained quiet, still nursing the vanishing embers that only flared whenever he took in smoke. Ah, she noticed that he too carried a walking stick, embellished with a scintillating jewel —one that was perhaps far from ordinary. It came as no surprise that she was uncertain of what to do, after all, Gandalf was just some old man delving in business that was not his own.
Still was the wizard when the staff was pulled away from the fabric and presented; his seasoned features gave no impression of shock. On the contrary, lips curled into a warm smile and he took her warning to heart —yet the wizard could not help himself and began to chuckle through rings of smoke.
"A mighty walking stick indeed, but I am well aware of sharp, pointed ends," a hand sweeps through his weathered robes, parting them to reveal the blade kept strapped to his waist. Foe-Hammer’s pommel glitters under the waning glow from the candles illuminating the room. Just as quickly as the light caught the cool metal, his robes obscures it from view and he returns to admiring the woman’s staff instead.
"Now then, this is a fine staff, though seldom do I come across such craftsmanship. But before we go further, I believe introductions have been long overdue," there is a bow of the head offered to her, languid in motion.
"I am Gandalf," one of the few names he wore.