(o) Silver Tongue, Pearl Teeth

Always running his mouth, yeah he's got a few scars

The quiet admission has Nate's nose wrinkling, another bout of anger lining itself up in his throat, though he doesn't loose it, not right away. He had met a fae in Torchline as well, but the chances of getting into her good books enough that she would help him were low, at least for something like this. Redeeming oneself in the eyes of gods was a far taller order than tidying an old building. Besides, he already had easier avenues to explore, connections with others who were liked by the old gods, others who were already far more likely to help him.

All Nate did in response to the question was hum, cracking the fingers on his other hand and lifting it to rub at his neck, at the silvery patchwork of almost scars that lingered there. The idea of a divine war sounded dramatic, exciting, and decidedly not like what he'd seen. "If they are still at war, it's a cold war." Came the eventual blunt response. "I can't claim to know how the old gods feel about it though."

There was a glint of curiosity at how much weight the other man had put on the question, how concerned he seemed to be. "There's scarier things to worry about than what the gods do, you know." Something that was almost kind lingered in Nate's tone, like he was trying, for the first time, to be helpful.

NATE