"It would be my guess that they bred him to add draegir blood to their Kathar legions," he said with a grim twist of his lips. He didn't add it's what I would do, but he certainly would have considered it. Zaichaer was always considering anti-pidge technology; fighting fire with fire was sometimes appropriate.
Whatever his distaste at thoughts of what mischief might have been wrought with Talon Novalys in Gel'Grandal, it was eclipsed by a near beatific smile at the prince's eventual response.
"I cannot express how it pleases and relieves me to hear you say that, Highness," he said. "Only an idiot would deny the existence of the Gods. Much of their nature lies beyond mortal comprehension for now, however, and many of the greater gods sit too high on the proverbial pyramid to bother with the likes of mortals unless our cities be like ant farms to them. Many of the lesser gods—no disrespect intended, but purely as a judgement of scale—have done more damage to mortals with their caprices than help..."
Clearing his throat into the bowl of his glass, it sounded remarkably like Talon Novalys.
Just as he was about to opine about forms of government, more guests were announced by the herald. What was nominally a relatively relaxed meeting held some of the trappings of a full gala; he hadn't actually been to one of those since before the rift tore open the Zaichaeri sky, not like they used to be.
"Your Highnesses," he greeted with a respectful bow.
"Welcome to Solunarium, Your Excellency," Octavian said, his modest bow in perfect synchronicity with his golden cousin's. He bowed lower to Arvælyn, and there was a softer set around his eyes as he made eye contact with the Umbrian princeps. Octavian would not forget who had come to save his people from the depths, even if he couldn't speak of it.
