Suncrest Manor

"Irena, you'll learn and you'll see. Bacchanalians do not murder and pillage, we romp and revel. Now sleep, and in the morning I want you to write that list again when your memory has fewer holes. I'll be back for it." The honey-scented pinecone dips slightly as Dionysus' command to sleep resonates with magical energy that makes it very compelling. Even if Irena doesn't succumb to slumber, he'll leave with just his staff and head for the front door.

The Mouth of the River

"And so here we are again..." At the far end of Northside, where the river meets the walls, Dionysus stands on the banks. He stares into the water with his staff in hand, contemplating his next actions.

Would imposing his will on the city be a proper response to this crime against a single follower? Probably not. Would this interfere with his other plans? Probably so. Could he twist it around into even greater gains for himself?

Of course.

He lifts a finger, the tip stained red with blood from a wound he already inflicted, smearing it over the tip of his thyrsus and mixing the deep red blood with the honey that coats the pinecone so liberally. When he removes the finger and holds it over the water below, three drops fall in succession.

One for himself.

One for his followers.

One for his enemies.

The magic takes hold quickly as he swears a silent oath over the waters, and vines begin to take hold along the river's bottom. They will spread, and within a matter of weeks anyone drinking of the city's waters will feel his influence, from the pipes or the river itself. That on its own will not be enough to turn them to a god they never knew, but he's merely touched a foot to the dancefloor now. There's still time for him to remember how the steps go.