The conversation flowed readily now that they were no longer strangers.
The deity found great comfort in how Itto spoke to them, as if Razlok was indeed their lifelong friend who only just returned from a long journey.
Itto leaned over the table as he detailed his projects, hands gesturing to indicate imaginary creations. His enthusiastic explanation only slowed when Razlok’s absence needed consideration, questioning if the deity knew of certain people or events that affected Itto.
Razlok was good about interjecting, prompting the man to give more context, but for the most part the deity simply sat back and listened.
When their plates were clear and their draughts were gone, the pair paid and left for the Guild, for home.
(There was a minor scuffle about who should pay – the human or the deity. Itto found it hard to argue against Razlok’s insistence as someone who could conjure money from thin air.)
Their conversation shifted back to the lighthearted teasing and flirting as they walked the short distance to the Guild.
Razlok understood why – it was fun conversation that required little attention, wouldn’t be terribly distracting as they ambled about in public, in earshot of any passersby.
Itto was clever, far too clever. And a hedonist, clearly.
Razlok was currently trying to find Itto’s preference for dating other humans with power dynamics, making up entirely hypothetical situations as examples.
It was difficult for Itto, the Seat of Metal, to find anyone who outclassed him directly but there were options. Royalty, perhaps.
“I know ye find someone who insists on paying for absolutely everything to be frustrating, but what if they owned the restaurant. Would that change things?”
Razlok was getting used to interpreting Itto’s silences, his unreadable facial expressions and the movements he paired with them. This one felt both amused (Itto huffed a laugh) and disgruntled (a shift in his shoulders, almost recoiling).
“If they owned a restaurant, why wouldn’t they cook for me?” Itto replied with some indignance.
The explanation continued as the pair entered through the great wooden doors of the Guild into the front hall.
“I think I would want them to cook for me,” the man insisted, his words echoing a bit in the nearly empty hall.
Razlok let out a knowing and slightly judgmental “mhmm” before teasing Itto, “You like someone who is good with their hands, is what I’ve learned.”
There was an immediate, unhesitating retort: “Someone set a high standard for my expectations.”
The deity cackled with laughter, knowing full well that Itto drew his love of skilled, competent creatives from the stories of Ink-Maker.
Their laughter dwindled as Itto slowed to a sudden stop without any comment or indication of why. Razlok took the moment to expand their perception, curious if something was happening.
Yes. Someone was standing nearby, blocking Itto’s path to the members’ quarters. Razlok instantly recognized the aura this man put off, as the fire magic was practically branded into his throat and lungs.
Neous.
“You moved on fast, Itto. Did you bother to mourn the god’s passing or is your plan to fuck your sorrows away?”
This would get out of hand quickly. Razlok felt Itto tense immediately, but it was followed by a meditative inhale and exhale, which helped relax the man.
“Move, please.” The playful tone from earlier was gone from Itto’s voice, replaced by a resolved neutrality that felt like a threat, like the dull back of a knife.
It wasn’t as if Neous mourned Auron’s loss. The man simply liked to get under Itto’s skin, to pick fights and try and leverage the weight of his Fire against Metal.
Razlok couldn’t pretend to like Neous, not anymore at least. There was a long list of reasons, culminating in the deity’s great need to send this bastard packing as soon as they had the energy to enforce it.
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“Orders are orders, Itto. Even for you. No guests. Not even bedwarmers.”
The deity had to tighten their grip on Itto’s upper arm to prevent the man from lunging forward, even though the aggression was greatly deserved.
In the fictional narrative, Neous was insulting one of Itto’s partners. In reality, Neous had just lobbed insults directly at a religious man’s deity.
But, unfortunately for Neous, Razlok was not the deity of thinking things through and being a good diplomat.
“What is he saying?” Neous demanded, irate that the words were being intentionally hidden from him.
“What are you planning?” The Seat of Fire used fear as a method of control, and he did not like it when others turned this tactic against him.
Razlok smiled a broad smile and let go of Itto’s arm, but it was the deity who stepped forward.
“Think we got off on the wrong foot.” Razlok held out a hand for Neous to shake, their left hand, as an extension of friendliness and goodwill.
The deity’s attempt to close the literal and metaphorical distance was rejected, as assumed would happen. They could feel heat radiating from Neous as the man’s temper flared.
Ordinarily, magical practitioners would be expected to absorb traits associated with their respective elements. It was a common side-effect of being so intrinsically connected to one type of magic, so much so that there were many stereotypes of the different elements.
Water was cool or cold. Fire had a temper. Metal was dangerous. Air was ditzy or aloof. Earth was nurturing. Lightning was erratic.
And all of these traits were true, in some manner. New mages tended to align their personalities and practices with the expectations they internalized, a self-fulfilling prophecy.
It was just… well… You grew out of it.
New mages were like that, but those who had honed their craft enough to be experts, enough to be a Seat? They could keep their magic under control, they were mature enough to push past expectation into establishing their own interests and behaviors.
But Neous, no… Neous used to be better. Used to be a genuine example of fire, of community and charisma.
He’d chosen to become the incarnation of rage-fueled arson, because it gave credibility to the fear of him that he used to retain power.
Ignoring the offered hand, Neous stepped into Razlok’s personal space leaning close to try and intimidate the other ‘man’. It might have worked for anyone else, but Neous was shorter than Razlok in this form, not tall enough to loom properly.
“I think you should fuck off back to whichever bar or brothel you came from. No guests allowed. We don’t need any more faggots like you sucking off the Criminal for favors.”
Razlok felt Itto gathering magic in the split second after Neous finished his insult, but the Seat of Metal was too late. The deity had offered their left hand for a reason.
They smiled with teeth this time, like a creature baring its fangs, and swung a right hook at Neous’ face with intent to harm.
The impact threw the human backwards as he clutched at his face. The nose was broken, Razlok had assured that. They were god of war for a reason, and that reason at the moment was to teach Neous a lesson.
“Ye might be able to play your wee mind games with the others but ye dinnae scare me, mate. Wanna pick a fight, I’m right here.”
Razlok took a few nonchalant steps forward until they could lean close to the injured Neous’ face and whisper their final threat.
“And I’m immune to fire, darling. I’ll play war with ye anytime.”
The deity wished they could see the Seat of Fire’s face, but they would have to be pleased with the quick retreat of the man, clutching his nose that had dripped hot blood on the floorboards.
Hopefully he was panicked enough about his injury and the confusing threats to stay away for a while. Or, more likely, Neous was just running away to be healed by Gwenllian.
A relieved exhale came from behind Razlok once the aggressor had fled. Itto approached the deity almost laughing and clapped a hand on their shoulder.
“Honestly, Razlok, I could kiss you.”
The Dark cracked a smile and wrinkled their nose at the man. “Oh? That a promise?”
They straightened their posture out and took a moment to relax as well, to ease any tension out of their body from the conflict.
In truth, the deity found combat situations almost calming, as they had a very clear goal of survival and protection, but this little conflict had added frustrations of Neous’ abusive nature and blatant homophobia.
It would have to be dealt with further, but Razlok probably had time to rest tonight and worry tomorrow about the Neous problem.
Humming in the back of their throat, Razlok brought their hand up to delicately clasp at Itto’s jaw in a little teasing touch.
“We can revisit the bedwarming later. You, dear, need tae stay with Rose and Elias, in case Carter decides on lashing out.”
Itto agreed with a murmur, but he tilted Razlok’s hand to kiss at the palm of it anyways.
It was a missed opportunity, and Razlok was undeniably needy given their absence, but it wasn’t like it couldn’t happen another day.
Razlok continued with an amused huff, occupying Itto’s personal space as they fished in the man’s pocket for the guest quarters key. “I can find the room. Ye go worry about Rose. I know what that weapon does when she’s in his sights.”
They wiggled the keys when they were found, before giving a none-too-gentle shove to Itto to send him off.
The man left. It would have been absolutely delightful to fool around with him tonight, but it was worth more to Razlok to ensure the safety of Rose than to be bedded.
Neous was truly heinous. Razlok knew this from prayers sent up about the man, but they hadn’t gotten any specific instances to cite until now.
And, with this in mind, it was absolutely imperative to see the cunt out, with or without a boot in his ass.