"Worship him!" Trammus slammed his fist on the table. "Blasphemous! He's a vampire!"
Soloman shrugged, slowly blinking his turquoise eyes. "Blasphemous it may be, but there it stands. Consider it: he is immortal. He has vast sorcerous powers. He rules Branapar with disinterested severity and is above the squabble of mortal politics. He brings them peace and prosperity and all he asks in return is the occasional human sacrifice. If mortals will worship graven images that do less and demand more, surely they'll worship a god-king who is manifest before them."
"Watch your talk of mortals, elf," Trammus said. "Don't paint me with the same brush as those animals."
"I beg your pardon," Soloman said, nodding. "Let's not argue over it. We have a common goal, and should focus on that."
"Hmm," Trammus replied, and looked again to his tankard.