Decian: Serious, but a not-so-secret sass master
The red eyed nocten stood with his hands on the table, and fixed King Duraine with a cold stare. “With all due respect, your majesty,” he began, his voice dripping with contempt, “The prophecy speaks of he blessed by Cemect. Is one of your men so blessed?”
“Well, no, bu—”
“Then it does not make sense to send only your men.”
“You have a point, nocten, but are you suggesting we waste precious time searching for someone blessed by a god who vanished tens of thousands of years ago?” Kind Duraine scoffed. “Where do you suggest we even begin to look?”
“Firstly, my name is Decian. Secondly, ask king Aaroldio. His people are descended from that very god, after all.” The red eyed man crossed his arms and sat back in his seat.
Duraine rolled his eyes, and followed the gaze of everyone at the table to King Aaroldio and the satyr who had accompanied him. The younger satyr’s eyes were wide, and directed, horrified, at the edge of the table in front of him. He finally understood why he had been chosen to accompany his king. “Aaroldio? Do you know of such a man?” King Duraine’s voice was laced with sarcasm.
“I do, in fact,” King Aaroldio smirked in response, and Yelgameesh watched Duraine’s face drop, “He is sitting next to me. Cemect, the god of music, has blessed this satyr.”
Silence fell over the table. All eyes were on either Avaeon, who was clearly shocked, Duraine, who was furiously indignant, or Decian, who had a smug grin on his face as he leaned back in his seat.
