Professional procrastinator, occasional writer

Averting his gaze to his next approaching customer, he absently wondered. For all that the tavern bore the name of angels, just how would people react if they knew how truly blessed it was? Maybe unorthodox in practice, but in its own way this was part of how he showed his faith. Was it even any surprise that here, in the nation of wind, wine, and song, the linchpin of the wine industry would be devoutly faithful to the religion he was raised amidst?

Even knowing what he does.

Eyes aglow with the clearest sky met burnished sunset, glinting in glee and untold mischief of past and present. A fluttering smile as lofty and bright as wings of crystalized wind rested upon cloud-soft skin drenched in all the hues of adoration.

It was one thing to be faithful, to run his own holy grounds in the form of a bar – whether the patrons realized that’s what it was or not – but it was another to know his efforts were acknowledged. To know that the very name reverently whispered within an entire nation’s prayers knew his own in turn and not only accepted his offering but favored it.

Divine mercy was the strumming of a lyre and salvation a smile.

It still felt almost disjointing, sometimes, knowing that a god walked in their midst. Knowing that their nation’s patron deity was chaotic at the best of times. As free spirited as the wind he was born from and just as whimsical.

Knowing that he, just as any, could get lost in a bottle of nostalgia and liquor, mourning those of ages long past as he sings their stories for the future.

For all that their god may be known as the weakest of the Seven, it could be argued that he works the hardest in his own way. Public figures though some of them may be, there sure had been no news of other gods going out of their way to ease a threat their people faced in hundreds of years. No news of it recently either, to be fair, but one simply cannot ignore what was experienced firsthand when fighting alongside the very figure they utter in reverent prayer. Phantom roars of wind and reptilian alike ring through his ears as he sends a thought to the whereabouts and wellbeing to the freed guardian dragon.

A voice brought the bartender out of his reverie as the bardic god slipped straight from his thoughts and onto a stool before the counter, fondness coating his every word. Noticing the minute jolt of attention from the ever-composed nobleman, he closed his eyes, threw his head back, and laughed, all wild bells and reckless abandon with all the honey richness of dandelions. The matter isn’t even all that funny or a scenario to laugh so hard at, but the atmosphere was already joyous as the night ran long and liquor poured a-plenty. Even through the gentle mockery, crimson eyes glowed with affection for the deity.

The bard placed an order for a glass of the finest wine, only to be shot down by the bartender with a question of his own regarding funds. There’s a pout and playful insistence to put the glass on his tab – not that the tavern allows open tabs – and dramatically rolled eyes. It’s a familiar scene, a familiar routine between the two. Ultimately, a flourishing gesture comes fast and coin, hard earned over the night of song, is pulled from a hat. In turn, practiced hands pass a long-poured glass of wine and the exaggerated pout morphs into an almost impish grin, firelight casting a halo upon raven-blue hair.

He doesn’t know anymore. Doesn’t understand exactly how he lasted so long without this. Memories flash once more of so many years ago, with late nights in fervent prayer, and of warm winds ever there to guide him home when he needed it most. Here, watching his joyous god pillow his chin on his hand, arm propped up by the countertop, he knows he would never go back to those days without.

Emerald-azure orbs met his own carmine once more, sunny-bright still with laughter.