Whenever people meet him, the first things their eyes are drawn to are his hands. Most show revulsion; for some it is mingled with awe, while some make the sign of the Rood, as if a simple motion could banish solid steel.
Day to day contact with the man who carries these strange instruments lessens the revulsion, of course. Watching him do such mundane things as dressing, eating, wielding a sword - at times, one does not notice the fact that the fingers sliding through cloth, clenched around the hilt are wicked and pointed and dangerous. Not even when they are aiming a blade for your throat.
Other times, they reassert their abnormality with the creak and tap of metal on metal, or metal on clay, as he smiles across the breakfast table, the light catching on silver barbs as he lifts a drink to his lips. It is something one never entirely gets over, even once the revulsion has passed.
The awe remains with those who follow him, and their existance continues to be an insult to those who oppose us. His hands, given by the gods, are a symbol of who and what he is - an avatar of sorts for his own person, garnering the same reaction, muted.
Perhaps that is why, when his palms are cold against my chest or the slim blades bite into my shoulders or thighs, I do not begrudge them in the least, but instead welcome them.