"Tch," he scoffed his derision, "I will not smudge it." No emphasis, no intonation. Merely fact. Maedhros came from a line of craftsmen, his father was the greatest of them. He knew how to care for delicate things, even if his fingers couldn't create them, that had been his life. Maedhros' eyes flickered over the man in quiet assessment, intense in their age and the burning fury that lived behind them.
"The wizards," he said shortly. "They are the Istari." The magic users, borne of the Maiar and existing solely to help the Ainur and their intents. Creators, destroyers, keepers. All of them with a different task.
Maedhros set the fruit container on the table top and took the chair opposite the other man without invitation. They were in public spaces, he was not inclined to behave other than his nature demanded. He leaned closer, "You are a map maker. That is a great skill to have." His voice was musical in sound, lyrical though it was obvious he was unaccustomed to speaking English.