"Nah," said Pallad. "I'm telling you Charles, Barbatos probably isn't real."
The adventurer took a long swig from his mug and asked the barkeep to top him off. Charles filled the glass.
"Sister Barbara and Gloria might be offended if you say that," he said.
"Well, you asked for my thoughts."
"Living in Mondstadt and not believing in Barbatos? That's unusual. Why don't you believe?"
"Oh, I think Barbatos the person exists, I just don't think he's some all-knowing, benevolent god." Pallad felt a familiar pain in his gut. He rubbed his belly.
"Something wrong?" asked Charles.
"People keep punching me in the gut," he complained. "First it was that Sumeru lady, then the Fontaine lady, and today it was this Mirror Maiden. Ugh."
"You seen a doctor?"
"Yeah, they say I'll be fine. Anyway, this just proves my point. If Barbatos is all-knowing and good, why would he let me get punched so much?"
Charles shrugged. "They say the gods have a plan that goes beyond us all. Maybe, the punching is part of a divine plan. Barbatos gave us freedom to choose, not freedom from pain."
"But then, that means Barbatos is cruel."
"I suppose so. But I think his cruelty is refining. I mean, look at Rosaria. She had a tough life and now she's a respected sister in the church. Or how about Kaeya? The man's father abandoned him, but that let Kaeya become a knight. Maybe, there's a point to it all and we just don't see it."
"Tell that to the bruise on my stomach," Pallad grumbled. He turned to a nearby man drinking at a table. "Hey, what do you think? Is Barbatos the god real?"
The bard lowered his mug and shrugged. "Alas, I am but a lowly bard. How could I know?"
"That's fair, I guess," said Charles. "A smart man admits what he doesn't know."
"Do you think the other gods are real then?"
The bard smiled in a knowing way. Before he could answer, a broad-shouldered hunter stomped up to the table and slammed down some Mora.
"The usual," he said irritably to Charles. While the barkeep prepared the drink, Draff turned his attention to Pallad. "Yeah, the gods are real. And they're a bunch of women and femboys who want to make us all sissy men."
Pallad and several other patrons sighed, bracing themselves for the inevitable rant they knew by heart.
"I'm serious," Draff snapped. "Look at the evidence! Three to four people get a Vision per month on average. But only once every century does a man with facial hair get a Vision! Little boys don't even get Visions. The gods hate us men with beards."
"Did you have a good hunt today, Draff?" asked Charles.
"Fantastic. I'm telling you those gods are all prejudiced. They hate manly men. If a man likes hunting, cuts his hair short, and acts like a real man, he never gets recognized by the gods. But a man who wears a ponytail and is born rich? Gods have no problem recognizing him."
"Please don't talk about my boss like that," said Charles.
"I'm not saying anything that isn't true! Look at bard over there," he gestured at Venti. "He's about as far from a man as it gets and yet he got a Vision! For what? Being pretty and singing tunes?"
"Draff," said Pallad. "Have a drink. You're not you when you're sobered."
Draff took a swig. A dopey smile crossed his lips.
"Ah, this is great," said Draff, "that Diluc sure knows his wine. Great man."
The hunter downed another flagon. His mood brightened.
"Hey, bard," he slurred, "could you sing one of your songs, please? Something about Barbatos?"
Venti performed the ballad. As the hour grew late, Pallad paid his tab and got ready to leave. Venti finished the song. Pallad heard him mutter something peculiar under his breath.
"I never should've given people free will."