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Blai likes morning prayers. He did before, too, even though the qualitative sensation of being in contact with Asmodeus's will was less comfortable and reassuring; he just likes it being common knowledge among everyone with the least bit of context on the situation that he is supposed to be doing this specific activity at this non-negotiable time.
He prepares the same spells he's been going for the past few days - a handful of things that should hopefully get him out of harm's way without hurting anybody if someone finds that pamphlet that misspelled his name and decides to do something about it, plus loading up on in-demand spells like Zone of Truth. But he spends most of the hour while they fill in contemplating what he is positioned to do - give advice, vote on things - and what he might be supposed to do with this. He knows he can't get clear marching orders, that's not how it works, but sometimes he imagines, or doesn't imagine, a touch of warmth or a glow of light, in this direction or that, and it might be his own conscience, if he can be said to have one, or it might be Her, and it's the best he's got right now, because all the people who know what Iomedaeans are supposed to do are busy placating archdukes and receiving the panicked confessions of people who think they have a failing heart and need to get their entire lives off their chest immediately or people who think the only thing that can save their career or social life is to be seen loudly buddying up with the nearest available Select. Blai is fielding some of this too, and if he feels out of his depth about it at least he's pretty good at not showing it and warning everybody he's badly catechized.
So far nobody has wondered exactly why it might be that he could be both new at this and third circle.
The hour ends. The sun is up; the spells are slotted. Blai gets up and walks out of his room to see what portion of the chaos it falls to him to calm.
