The Whiskey and the Candle
One could think that a man in a tavern in Malboro wouldn't do anything less than react angrily to such a move of bad sportsmanship. He might have questioned why the youngblood didn't just play along with his game of candles. Could have threatened his life even. But this particular man, in an even more unsettling display, laughed quietly as the flame's lasting breath, now a wheezing string of smoke that bunched up in the air like tulle, vanished. He had listened to Ron's ethical lecture. It was earnest enough, he thought. Free will, freedom to worship the whole package. But when he spit out the fire he only laughed and spoke again.
"All of it, horse shit. The fire dancers, the..." He paused, raising a brow to Ron. It was the kind of pause that made it hard to tell if he actually knew Ron's identity or if it was simply a well-timed coincidence. "The Month warriors. The mysticism is real, but the intentions behind it aren't what they seem. Our world is lost I think. Because we trust in Gods that aren't trusting in us, and we trust in Gods that don't serve the purposes they should." As he spoke, he drew a finger in the direction of the candle where the flame was slowly rippling awake, cracking its back and standing straight and steady as it had been before Ron had reached the table.
"Boy... Man cannot trust in Gods," he said. "Only in the power of other men."