He didn't seem at all hesitant, even though under other circumstances, he would be pretty damn nervous; mostly because of the fact that there are so many eyes on him. It was unnerving, dragged up some unpleasant memories; experiences he was quite certain weren't truly unique to him. Things many of his kind, and probably many of the gathered here, had to deal with.
He felt the prick, and felt the heat, but at the same time, there was no real pain or true sensation. More like a figment of a sensation. It filled him with a bit of curiosity, and he watched as the shard of metal that he would ordinarily call junk changed its appearance. Once it had fully changed, he seemed to spend more time looking over them than anything else.
Words were spoken, however. The half-orc was speaking, and it dragged him away from his quiet contemplation of the magical item which he now held. He could feel its power thrumming pleasantly, and while he felt the urge to just settle down somewhere quiet and analyze it more thoroughly, that simply was not possible at this time.
"Please, stand up, Mazon." Gods above, was this a dream? A trick? He typically found refuge in such skepticism. Yet, it was hard to muster up much of it.
There was now hesitation in what she asked. He wore such clothing to try and save him from ridicule and the persecution of the crowd, even though it made him stick out in its own way. And she was... well, asking him to willingly stop hiding, something that had become a natural instinct to him. And yet, he could see no real harm in it, after a moments contemplation. He was amongst those whom were treated the same as he, after all.
He would push back the hood of the faintly magical garb, a bit awkwardly, hands unaccustomed to having anything on them. His skin was pale with a slight red quality to it; very slight. One might mistake it for some sort of odd tan, but coupled with the other features that become noticeable, it is pretty clear that he's not just an oddly tanned human. Oh no. Horns started right around the center of his forehead, and curved around the side of his head, creating something almost like a circlet of bone. The ends of the horn met at the back of his neck, barely touching each other and his skin. His orange eyes also marked him as quite odd, hinting at an ancestry rich in magic of one sort or another.
After turning about, slowly taking in the sight of the crowd, and letting them see him for what he was, he would turn his attention to the woman named Mazon. Voice kept quiet so as not to be heard, he'd say "I have no clue what's going on here, or what you expect of me." The way he sounded, this was something that was half an expression of skepticism, and half a request for help.