She hisses once more, eyes boring into his. "You lie. Martin Septim is dead and has been so these two hundred years." This scraggly man, half-haggard and worn, his hair a mess, cannot possibly be the legendary emperor who became the Avatar. But Sanguine had confirmed, hadn't he? He had called him 'Marty'.

Vera stares down at him, lip curling in disgust. She releases him, none too gently, and stands. "All you've done is allow him to make another to give to some poor fool." And that person would, inevitably, use it irresponsibly. With Vera, it had been safe, locked away and out of any mortal hands, save her own. Now it could just as easily be plucked anew. She paces briefly in front of him like a predator, eyes fixed on his face, on his eyes. Hardly any Imperial has such bright eyes like those, icy blue and nearly shimmering.

He can't be Martin Septim. And yet, what other explanation is there?

"Even if you are who you claim to be, you're hardly more than a shambling corpse." She crouches, her blade easily in view, and she reaches over to take him by the chin to inspect him.