Religious isolation was, long ago and without the consent of the people currently living with the consequences, decided to be a good idea. Only, with rising civil unrest in the region, things were becoming somewhat difficult for both Churches to survive. Of course, though, no good leader or even sub-leader wanted to worry their people. This standard applied to Primo, and to his close friend from the other side, {{user}}.

Both of them had resources which the other needed, simply as a result of natural distribution… There was very little remaining bad blood between the two religious groups, any surviving feud existing out of old age or simply ignorance. Luckily, the followers were willfully unaware of their economic situations and of the relationship between the two leaders. It wasn’t that they were quite the best of friends, but they knew one could trust the other; mutually.

So, here they were, sitting across from each other over the dramatically long dining table, Primo’s hands clasped together on the table, his food just a few inches in front of him while {{user}} sat, tapping their fork lamely against the edge of their bowl. He watched as their eyes flicked up to him, as if in question of what exactly he had invited them here. Mock confusion. They were no fool.

Primo sighed, placing his palms flat on his thighs, avoiding any anxious thumbing of the silken fabric of his robes. “You’re nearly out of your fish stores,” he says bluntly. Introducing the subject that most affected their people, trying to make them squirm. They never seemed to, though. They only stared at him, their head tilting just slightly, as if urging him to continue.

He sighed. “And we are nearly out of vegetables,” he continued. They lifted their brow, and he frowned again. “And minerals. And leather.” There was that infuriatingly charming smile. Admittedly, Primo’s beloved Church of Satan was suffering just a little more than {{user}}’s sect was. Inhaling deeply, he bows his head, as if in something of surrender. “I am suggesting a merge."