casually cruel. [p]

Two crates of imbued artifacts excavated from Kin -- notify local buyers of their supplier. 20 liters of Cascade-blessed relic water -- send payment to Talori ambassador to envoy at Shadow Point.

Pascal watched his pen scratch his notes into his ledger, his muzzle hovering just inches over his dark mahogany desk to where someone might think it was a part of him if they were far enough away. A bad habit, one he told himself he would break when he found himself in need of reading glasses at just 35 because of undue wear and tear, but here he was, straining his eyes needlessly behind the lenses. Maybe it was about proximity to his work, not some sort of physiological compensation. He had to be hyper-aware of each stroke to make sure -- personally -- that it was correct.

These were his artifact transactions, specifically, and in spite of his focus he found himself wondering about their common denominator: the value of all of them was based in spirituality, in the reaction of the faithful. Some of them, materially, were junk. The Talori relics were literally water in vials, and Pascal was sure most of them (if not all) were not really touched by the hooves or lips of Cascade in ancient days despite them being verified by clergy. The verification made the hagiography possible, and somehow, the hagiography was what gave them the monetary value that was important to the Banker of Nariah. He snorted against the page as he supposed that made the spirituality important to him by proxy. People were so desperate to have contact with a god that they would wager worldly possessions to put themselves at an invisible, divine whim. That, Pascal knew, was about power.

His ears cocked at some stirring in another part of his house. He glanced up over the tops of his glasses through the crack in his office door, looking for signs that his houseguest had at last, midday, left the bed they had been wallowing in. What of the Kirin? Living proof that there was only one thing that could deter even the most spiritual mortals, willing to drop anything from coin to dignity, from seeking proximity to the divine: fear. Caleb had known a god. Pascal was inclined to believe him, because his appearance at all had been fantastical enough to verify the ancient histories. And yet, Breimians would chase him out of the caves with torches, not reach out to touch a pelt that had once been admired by immortal eyes and touched by immortal skin. For all their talk of proximity with regard to pegasi and Argus, Pascal thought it rendered the old-time religious Breimen something like cowardly to shy away from someone who could tell them what the voice of Ignacio really sounded like.

This was neither here nor there to Pascal. It was a hitch in his appraisal of Caleb; he was harboring him on a hunch, eager to turn the hunch into a plan. He would keep working it out. "Hey." His pen dropped with a flat tap, and his voice shot harsh and raised out of his office. "Just because there's no sunrise here doesn't mean there's no way to tell time. It's almost noon."