[center][h2][color=9e0b0f][i]Naqqash[/i][/color][/h2][/center]

Naqqash watched the arrival of each of the Gods from behind his father's old chair. It was a gaudy, ridiculous thing in his eyes, made up of every precious metal and constantly changing its ornaments. Heavy jewlery piled about it, thick strands of gold and silver woven into a rich cushion on the seat, beautifully wrought marble armrests, it was never content to remain one fine material for very long. Naqqash stood beside it, though in and of itself he thought the chair was absolutely ludicrous, he was more interested in what it represented.

Equality. He didn't care about the powers of a Greater deity, or the influence it might bring him. Naqqash wanted to be heard. For his people to have a seat amongst the highest of courts so that he and they could not be ignored and trampled upon by those lucky enough to not have had their center taken from them. Even amongst the rebellion it was only those gods who had died that had lost their centers, and their heirs deprived of them as well. Ferrum had kept his, yet had rebelled. As had Ahru, and while Naqqash felt no ill will towards either it irritated him how [i]vehemently[/i] his appeals were rejected each time these meetings happeened. Each time Oksana would stand against him, scolding his father for rebellion and Naqqash for blindly siding with his father. Naqqash would try to argue, claiming that any demigod would do the same for their parent... but the outcome never changed. Despite his respect for Naqqash Kilgarrah voted with Oksana, followed by most all the gods on that side of the rebellion and the king said the matter was over.

And so Naqqash stood in the sahdow of a dead father, a shadow he could not escape... but perhaps now was the time. He greeted those gods that bothered to greet him. He bent down heavily, skin tearing and bones creaking though he seemed to pay them no heed, smiling beneath his helmet at her kind words and returning, "[i][color=9e0b0f]If they would ever give me the chance aunt.[/color][/i]", and leaning back up. Janin received as good as she got, being one of the few gods Naqqash could claim to truly hate. From beneath his helmet a light snarl met her glare, the woman standing against all Naqqash stood for. She was a decadent slaver, and he could never undrestand how one as good hearted as Ahru could enjoy her venemous company.

Ki'ivara's entrance... confused Naqqash to an extent. In spite of himself, Naqqash naturally drew away from her on instinct, as if afraid to offend the Goddess of beauty with his... twisted form. He had fought her daughter during the war, comign to a stalemate with her before retreating... she had been good but like her mother made Naqqash shrink with their beauty against his sheer ugliness. Xsar... well he was Xsar. He was to... complex? No, he was too [i]ridiculous[/i] for Naqqash to even consider him... well more than a relative. Naqqash like Kilgarrah, and gave him a slight bow, respecting him even if he often stood opposed to Naqqash. Azo'tet was always strange to Naqqash. Loss and death were a common occurrence together, but Azo'tet always seemed... lax to Naqqash. He knew little of Ilyona or Di'Myria, giving them nods of welcome.

Now Zadia... that was entrance Naqqash would not soon forget. A fellow orphan of the rebellion, similarly denied her rightful center, Naqqash had always felt a kinship with  her, and her entrance surprised him. The room darkening, a ball of hate... what was that grin? she had stopped upon his twisted visage and visited some sort of... excited and insane smile. This was before she walked to take her center and... apparently the throne. For a moment Naqqash thought no one was going to stop her... before Oksana stepped in. The short bout, ended by the guardian was nonetheless jarring. Naqqash was transfixed until it ended... and decided he would be the first to speak up in the following silence. "[i][color=9e0b0f]The Guardian is right. To fight here is... disrespectful. We should discuss... and find our new king in peace if at all... possible yes?[/color][/i]", he spoke in his wet, ragged gasping voice torn from tortured lungs and throat, as if each word pained him to speak. If such was the case, he showed it not.