13th Zi'da, 718
Tio looked at the reflection of his back in the mirror, or more accurately the demon-wing tattoos upon it that served as his mark of Syroa. The black lines that symbolized the connection he had to his patron god were fading away, along with the last remnants of the Queen of Masks power residing inside of him. So too were the wing-like tattoes on his forearms that marked him as one of Delroth's. His bond with the Immortals had gone.
It wasn't a surprise this was happening. Tio had never been one for devotion in the first place, only offering just enough prayers or acts of faith to scrape by as a low-level follower when it suited him. However since he'd learned the truth during Cassion's game he'd stopped any sort of devotion all together. He no longer wanted the Immortal marks upon him; he never wanted to risk becoming the next meat-suit for one of the gods to jump into, no matter what powers they could offer him in return. Cassion's curse was something he would probably never be rid of, but it seemed like common sense that if he stopped offering his prayers to Syroa and Delroth then they would in turn remove their blessings from him.
The last of the lines across his skin faded, and just like that it was over. He was godless now; he had no divine allies who'd come to his aid if any if the ones he'd earned the ire of in his lifetime came after him. From here on out he'd have to rely on his own power, the strength of his skills and sparks, to get by.
So be it. His ambitions had already led him to strike out against an Immortal once, and he would no doubt have to do so again in his quest to become just like them: to live forever. But now he had a plan. Now he'd got the better of one before, he had a feeling he'd know how to do it again.