A Priest

You are a priest. A servant of the Shattered God, twice baptised: once in water and once in blood. Even now, even out at sea, you wear the white collar. Your words carry the weight of the church, and you are attuned, by training or by divine providence, to the emotions they stir within others [+ Divine Blood].

When fog creeps up from the waters, when the Liar Stars light a moonless night, the faithful gather in the great cathedrals of Barenhaven, or in the smaller chapels out on the isles and in the colonies. They look to men such as yourself to lead them in prayer, to ward their souls from evil. To guard them against the ancient enemy, and against things worse still, lurking out at sea.

And yet you left it all behind. You no longer preach, and it has been a while since you last said the Lord’s prayer. The Three Bone Inn offers less genteel entertainments than parish picnics or the simple joy of a small but well-stocked library. The Demeter’s crew are godless heathens – or worse – and the Captain isn’t much better. And yet you aid them with the sweat of your brow and the crack of the whip. You no longer preach.

What fey fortune separated you from your flock, and cast you out on the godforsaken waters? Why do you lay your head here, in this den of vice?