The sliding scale of beauty in 'fiendish' ancestors is truly staggering, and Ayatan leans forward a little to examine the illusions better. Particularly the Rakshasa, taking note of their finery and strange hands with a sharp intensity in their gaze. Beautiful creatures, but appearances don't always match hearts, do they?

"You mean he enslaved you," they interpret, a note of quiet, cold fury in their voice. Not anger at tieflings, but for them, outrage kept in check but simmering visibly in their face. Behind Ayatan, Umbra's posture also shifts, that eyeless head turning to commit the appearance of Asmodeus to its memory, fingers tightening subtly around the hilt of its sword. "It's what always happens when people have too much power. When they don't care about anybody else except how they can use them." Ayatan shakes their head in disgust, raising their eyes to meet Rolan's. "It's not your fault how you were born. What you are."