[ It is strange to him, to have his arm held in such a way; it feels both overly-familiar and distinctively remote, more of an idle pleasantry than an act of control. Still, his skin crawls and his jaw tenses -- electing to permit such contact, rather than alienate a man who might prove to be as powerful an ally as he might be an enemy. The moment he is able to part and sit, he does so in a rush, coiling his limbs across the dark cushions in his favorite corner -- few settle there, now that the war god has claimed it as his proverbial throne.

The rich, bitter scent of smoke flows between the obscene jut of his canine teeth, the fullness of his mouth parted as he comes to settle on smoking throughout the conversation, drawing from a pipe that smells faintly of frankincense and the exotic, foreign amalgamation of Springstar itself. As Voryn speaks, he continues to reorient himself to face the other man, darkly-lined eyes at half-mast and hair thrown into a spill of vibrant red across his spine. Lines of bright color and gold jewelry shining in the dim firelight cast around the dusky domain of the Last Dance. ]

Ra gave birth to herself, from the cosmic sea. She is the almighty beginning of world, and origination of the lineage that eventually came to my own beginnings. To hear that your reality has none like her is - curious, to me. Not obscene, nor incorrect. I have traveled far and wide of my world, and other lands have other creators as well. We are all children of the cosmic sea.

[ He accepts the glass poured for him, with the ease of someone who is quite used to such acts of service. It is not as though he trusts Voryn, but that he is incapable of considering betrayal; even if betrayal has richly woven itself throughout his history. ]

We are concepts, Lord Dagoth. We rule our humans and guide them, and they owe all they are capable of to us.

[ Hesitatingly, as he drinks deep of the cup: ] Or, so I have always thought.