Somehow, someway, this guy manages to put his foot...well..hoof, in his mouth over and over again. Each time she thinks he might actually be a good guy, he goes and ruins it by saying something perverted, dumb, and now in this case, misogynistic. Did he really not understand the risks of pregnancies, STDs, and literally everything else dealing with the body surrounding the engagement of sex? Weren’t satyrs sexual creatures? Shouldn’t they be the foremost experts in the field of all things sexual, including the consequences of acting recklessly with such? Then she remembered who his father was and she let her head drop to the table, her forehead hitting it with a soft thud. “Lecherous. drunken. pig.” She spoke under her breath, letting her head hit the table between each grumbled word that described the aforementioned god.<br/><br/>She didn’t even bother to lift her head when he asked about the schedule. Instead she just reached into her toga and pulled it from the front knot and slid it over the table to him, continuing in her self inflicted pain, the physical ailment feeling far more comforting than the knowledge of who she was partnered with...for four years.