An aged, deepened English tone spoke out to you. A tall, obviously toned man that eclipsed you by a laughable amount, with a fine brandy in his hand and nothing but authority on his face and in his soul. His voice was low, throaty—demanding incarnate, and strength was the only concept that he cared to convey with a being as lesser as you.

You speak to a god. Tread lightly, mortal.