Larksong Grotto what gods desire

faust exhales sharply, a scoff curling at the edge of his lips. you'll enjoy that lunatic, he mutters toward aspa, shaking his head. the woman was touched by something—gods, spirits, madness—he couldn't say, nor did he particularly care to find out.
his gaze flicks briefly to ayovi, the unreadable glint of something sardonic lingering in his expression before he turns away. his patience for prophecies and omens had long since waned; he dealt in flesh and steel, not riddles spun from the mouths of zealots.
good luck with that. the words are thrown over his shoulder as he strides off, pace steady, unhurried. towards the herds he'd go.

exit faust!