He starts to wrap his head around some of the twisty thinking of the Iomedaeans, of the cityfolk, by the end of the whole convention. The ways of operating by incentive, by expected future action, setting precedents, setting policies. It's far too much for any one man- Any one person- To bear in mind all at once. Even an archmage wearing a magic headband, surely. But you can approach it from the side. You can latch your teeth onto one little bit and dig at it like a stubborn root. He plays up the loud hick thing time and time again as the debate continues.

'Now, maybe I'm jus' confused, but wouldn't that mean whoever chooses the guy for that job could be on the take? Maybe we can elect 'em?'

And then someone pushes back against the election because, and they're right, most of his fellow sortitions are idiots, and electing folks so far has led to a mess where whoever promises the most spectacle or gold wins. But he knows it would never fly, and he so politely apologizes and stands down when the argument comes back. But now they're talking about it more. Maybe someone proposes that bribery in this particular fashion be made illegal, or that the inspector of post, or commerce, or whatever else, has some kind of limit imposed on it...

And maybe he's being counterproductive. Maybe he's making it worse. It's hard to tell. If he's tugging a little itty bit of power away from the rich merchants, the smug fucking nobles, it's probably worth it. They drove out that Galtan with the coffee shop but the Galtan archmage is still here, and sure, Galt is a mess, but- There has got to be weight on the other end of the lever. Steal a blade or two from the armory, so the old cleric has got to watch his back, has got to worry about going too far. Doesn't fix things, no. But might make it a little better. (Is that too Calistrian of him?)

He thinks aloud, talking to himself, a lot when tending his little orphan boy after hours. He heard from someone, somewhere, that it helps them learn. So he talks aloud even as he reviews proposals and tries to find the hidden snares, the points where accident or design mean that the intent and reality of whatever clause don't line up.

He's afraid to go to Hell. He's terrified of it, really. Wakes up in sweats imagining the endless torment. He inquires whether Atonement might be possible with an Abadaran, once, and- Well. Out of his price range, even with the stipend. They had some words about how money prioritizes things, but mostly he thinks it means the rich and powerful get all the nice things and somehow are still rich and still powerful. Abadarans.

A couple days of pacing and muttering and it shifts around in his head. Fine. That's not the right attitude. Fear of Hell? No, what he needs to do is spite Hell. Even if it won't save him, himself. Fuck Hell, may Asmodeus choke on ash and see all his carefully laid effort thwarted, may the people of Cheliax be Good or Neutral instead, as revenge for all the bullshit, for the abusive clerics and nobles, for the kidnapping kids into torture-schools. It's all Asmodeus's fault at some remove.

He doesn't really understand Good. At best, he understands the creed of 'spite Asmodeus'. So he becomes a passionate preacher of it. On the street, on the debate floor. Adopt an orphan, he tells people, really, babies and small children don't know any better. It's going to suck, it will be awful, but it's definitely Good if they have no other place to go. You don't have to give away your money but, but don't cheat people, don't take bribes. Asmodeus wants you to hate. Asmodeus wants you to be a petty little tyrant, making anyone you have the slightest power over squirm. Do you want to do what Asmodeus wants you to do? No! What would Asmodeus do? Let's do the opposite of that! Surely that must be Good, or at least Less Evil.

(He is duly corrected in this by several exasperated and overworked foreigners, eventually, and refines his approach as the days pass. The goal is the same, and the root of spite is the same.)

Eventually, it ends. He feels like he's aged another year, and lost ten at the same time. He half expects to be murdered in the night some day. But the Archmages would bring him back, so everyone's too scared to. After the convention then? ...Maybe, maybe. He'll have to disappear smart quick. He's sent a couple of letters home, and not gotten a one back- He is a bit worried about them all, the three surviving adult children and several grandchildren by his daughter, who's moved out- But there doesn't seem to be anything to do about that right now. And they're certainly not offering a teleport back.

He tries to find that other woman to travel home together, safety in numbers, but no, they live in different areas. Alone, then. Well- Except for his new son, of course. Bit irresponsible of him to pick up a toddler as aged as he is, when he might be meeting the Judge soon and leaving the lad in the lurch again. All the more reason to get home and arrange something more... Permanent. Honestly, the forty or so crowns he's managed to save up over the course of the whole bloody thing should be - life changing, for a single rural farm. He debates what to do with it for a while. In an Abadaran sort of way- They're infuriating, but they do still make some sort of sense- He has some money, and he wants to buy things with it.

What does he want to buy? 

Not going to Hell.

And that means buying Good.

And that means doing Good. Or trying to. He can do more Good if he's still alive to labor, however much he's got left in him.

So, he goes home. He buys a horse and a cheap cart and all sorts of city sundries that are hard to get out on the farms- Good iron pots and other tools mostly. And he travels along with others, and does chores where he can, and mostly people ignore or try to scam an old man, but Asmodeus has molded them, it's not their fault, so he will be patient and try to sound wise as he attempts to call on guilt and spite. He goes from city to village to town. He gives a beggar some food and listens to his story. Maybe it was all lies, maybe he'll do better, maybe not. He goes from village to another village and prays to Erastil and contemplates the Good that is found in family and hard work. He does not become a cleric. He does not have any sudden revelations or have an adventurer's powers. 

He gets robbed on the road. A desperate, wild-eyed tiefling, filthy clothes and a rusting sword and visible ribs. They take the horse and the remaining gold (less the three pieces he's hidden in his boot) and some of his food. He doesn't report it. People have been driving out tieflings, beating them and taking their homes. He prays for the man.

Is he doing this right? He's pretty sure he's not. But the babe is still with him, and not starving and sitting in his own filth in that forsaken screaming room called an orphanage.

He gets home. His wife has a lot of things to say. For example, that Timen owns the farm now, got it signed by the local baron and everything, and he's brought in Camellia, a girl from down the way who is insufferable, and-

Well, nobody's happy about another mouth to feed, and a stranger's baby at that. She's not happy about the news that he was robbed either, even if some of the cargo made it to their village in the middle of nowhere. There are insults and anger and he takes a long walk around the fields to cool off, but no, this is no good. Even if he could make the farm his anymore, it's not like he'll take it to Hell. Or, optimistically, to Axis. The convention has instilled in him a sense of... Proportionality, long-term planning, and paradoxical calm around insult and indignity. He was the pathetic unwashed old man to that room, and that was fine, it suited his purposes then, and it does now.

He lives in a side room in his own house. He gives away, piece by piece, the remainder of his savings and goods taken from Westcrown. He eats gruel, mostly. He's too old for heavy farm labor but he can watch kids, and cook, and tend animals, and talk about the city and the priests of far-away and what they teach. Try to instill some wonder, some mercy, some peace. He bought wax boards back in the city, and now volunteers to teach letters and numbers, in the middle of the village, when the kids can be spared.

His adopted orphan lad grows up. It's hard for him. The Oriol family doesn't particularly like him, despite Ruben's efforts. But Ruben does his best out of some newfound sense of fatherly pride to instill whatever responsibility, calmness, he can in the lad. He prays for the three babes left in the field some time, prays that they'll be free of the Boneyard, and so will this lad, Marten, of unknown father and unknown mother but now an Oriol. He said he'd be responsible for raising the lad, and he is, and does, and then Marten is fourteen and-

And then he dies and, despite a spirited argument between a Devil and a Nirvanan, ultimately goes to Axis.