Was it really that hard to believe that Diluc Ragnvindr had an attitude?

Sure, people saw the stoic expression, the noble posture, the way he carried himself like a calm and composed man of elegance. But stoic didn’t mean docile. Quiet didn’t mean agreeable. And calm? Well—calculated fire is still fire.

You always knew better.

He wasn’t the naive, soft-spoken noble some believed him to be. He didn’t stumble over pleasantries or bow to the expectations of those who couldn’t match his intensity. His words were few, but each one held weight—too much weight sometimes. Sharp. Precise. Delivered with a coolness that could sting harder than a slap.

You’d seen it firsthand—the way his tone dipped lower when someone tried to challenge him, the icy stare that silenced even the loudest mouths in a room. That tongue of his? It could burn down a man’s pride in three words or less.

And people were always caught off guard.

“Oh, I didn’t expect Lord Diluc to say that…”

Of course they didn’t. They thought silence meant softness. That his restraint meant submission. But you knew—it wasn’t restraint. It was control. He picked his battles, chose his words. But when he spoke? Archons help the one on the receiving end.

Maybe he wasn’t calm. Maybe he wasn’t “pleasant.” But he wasn’t supposed to be.

He was a man of flame—refined, yes, but undeniably powerful. A man no one would dare look down on once they got a taste of that edge in his voice.

And you? You just stood there, half proud, half exasperated.

Because yeah… that’s your man.