He was not much to look upon, as a god, though if one expected to be awed by the presence of a god of debauchery they were as mad as half his followers. Dressed in gaudy coloured nobleman’s attire, he was young with slightly untamed mid-length black hair and a relatively attractive face, though certainly not on par to the form most gods saw fit to assume. Leaning from the balcony of his large opulent room in Kronos, Morios the god of revelry and madness blearily observed the proceedings in the courtyard below. As a god, it was hardly necessary for him to be beside his fellow divinity to know exactly what was being said, or how it was being said which was often more important.

“So the prodigal son returns.” He muttered sardonically, sipping from the goblet which appeared just as he raised his hand. His great uncle had never been awake in his presence or such that he could remember, which was little considering his fondness for alcohol and its after-effects. Down below he was being questioned by Mysia, his beloved aunt, Lathunis lingered nearby as well as Eskellon, that boring old coot. They all looked so serious down below, which worried him more than it should have. Mysia especially was hardly playing her part, she needed more twitching and shaking, it would be difficult now for Morios to maintain her illusion of madness, but still he would try. He sighed, what he wouldn’t do for family. The thought brought him back, three weeks prior, to the death of his uncle Aroesus. It had been a tragedy, of that he was sure, and the subterfuge afterwards required his particular set of skills, Mysia had deemed it wise to hide her pregnancy, and she had enlisted the help of her nephew in such a task to ensure even the gods believed her incapacitated. Morios was not one to look at, but down below the mortals grew mad and debauched in the chaos, and his power swelled in result.

Dimly, Morios felt the pain of Aroesus' city as it was claimed by the night-fiends, servants of Mikazliqui. It was not part of his sphere to be so knowledgeable of far off events, usually, but the thirst of vampires was a very specific form of debauchery, and Morios was more than privy to the ongoing revelry of blood. His hand twitched involuntarily, so much satisfaction was hard to ignore, even if he privately found it unnerving to feast upon life blood. When he raised his goblet to his lips he spat in surprise, red liquid falling to the ground below, he emptied his cup along with it.

“Blood, bah.” He swore, and made his goblet refill with wine. His hand shook slightly as he sipped the liquid, this time the familiar taste of the alcoholic beverage settling his nerves.