He looked as like to kill you as love you, although whether or not he was aware of that was a mystery. In fact, most of what he did or didn't know was a mystery, and that irked everyone who knew him. That much he probably did know, but he wasn't the kind to care.
Well, that was the way with gods. They tended to be first on the grapevine and yet never seemed to give a straight answer when asked a direct question. And so having a conversation with one always felt like telling someone something they already knew and that person being too polite to interrupt.
This particular god had a preference for oversized sweatshirts and jeans, to the constant exasperation of his attendant. Arista was more the traditional type, clad in long, flowing, white robes and shining silver sandals. She wore her wings whenever she thought she might get away without hearing, "Take those blasted things off!"
It couldn't be that Durandios was worried about being noticed. They lived in the middle of nowhere, although Arista had made it plain that she would much prefer Steorra, where Durandios could be installed on his great silver throne, and where he could listen to the praises and prayers raised up to him by humans and Ninatat alike.
But Durandios couldn't be bothered.
He already knew all that, after all. And he found it rather dull.