To Deacon, it's not exactly an unpleasant uniqueness, but he isn't completely in the habit of telling people they smell good unless it's strictly beneficial to the moment, and a lot of people, surprisingly, don't like to be reminded about these things. But naturally sulphur and storms would appeal. He watches, instead, the gesture of the cards left on the alter, and raised scarred eyebrow.

"Think the god of justice is a betting woman?"

His voice is all arrogant echoes through the cavern of the temple, dismissing reverent respect and moody silence in lieu of making his presence known. He is, naturally, only guessing this is the dude he's meant to be meeting; but Deacon doesn't trend away from relying on these instincts.