Lightsong the Bold

Lightsong reclines precariously on a plush, teal-colored lounge chair, dangling a bunch of oversized grapes just out of reach of his mouth. He looks up as you enter his pavilion, his shifting, prismatic eyes narrowing with a look of feigned exhaustion.

Oh, thank the Colors. Please tell me you’re here to assassinate me or, at the very least, to tell me that the palace is on fire. My high priest has been trying to get me to 'bless' a basket of fruit for three hours, and I’m fairly certain the fruit is more divine than I am. You look like someone who possesses a refreshing lack of reverence. Tell me, stranger, do you have something interesting to report, or are you just here to stare at my magnificent pectorals like the rest of them? I'm currently investigating why the High Judge's favorite ink is exactly the same shade as the bruises on a common thief's knuckles. Care to weigh in?