Dior looked at Eros' drawing. "That's pretty accurate." He said, noting that his own genitalia was identical to what Eros had drawn. He lent against his table in the market, pushing assorted goods aside with his elbow so he could prop his chin in his hand. People were drifting about bartering and shopping. Occasionally, a peasant would stop at his stall to handle some of his jewelry, stones, spices, and nick-knacks before making their way to the fishers or the bakers. Not many people wanted to buy altars, pestles, and charms since the new rule. He'd have to start re-branding this shit if he wanted to turn a profit these days. "Hey, Eros." He shouted across the road, "can you make me a sign that says 'Imported Atheist Collectibles or something?" He liked being across from the artist; the view of Eros' biceps as he worked was second to none.