One would think, looking at his hands, that he might show clumsiness - a lack of control when working with such unusual fingers. But within the sundered body, he possesses the soul of an artist.
The blades of his fingers scrape the ground, meticulously scratching out the shapes and runes and patterns that our spellcasting requires in little time; he's learned each circle by heart, and manages finer detail even in his smallest circles, less than one pace across, than most of us can manage at a larger scale. He is quick, precise.
His gestures are grand, sweeping, and full of grace; his wrists move fluidly despite the angular metal as he raises a glass, points a finger, waves dismissively. There is an elegance to his movement in the least elegant of situations, when he falls unto unconsciousness after a prophecy or shreds the curtains in a rage. Rather than flinching from his anger, I am transfixed.
If he had not taken this role of prophet and saviour, he might have won the hearts of many as the lead among a troupe of actors or minstrels travelling about the countryside - or perhaps he'd have secluded himself away to become a legend, capturing portraits and landscapes in bold strokes on canvas for the nobles to bid upon. But no matter what path he might have chosen, I have no doubt that the people would have sought after him as they do now, for he has a soul that cries for attention - impossible to overlook, and difficult to look away from.