The synod of ’89 [+ CREEPING SHADOWS]

You are the Almost Bishop of Anceleisle.

As the priests shepherd the faithful, so guide the bishops the rest of the clergy. Men of awesome devotion and unimpeachable scholarship; men of boundless ambition and peerless scheming.

You do not mind the politics. In fact, you are almost a master at this particular game. Almost. For His Excellency, the new Bishop of Anceleisle, outplayed you at every juncture.

While he secured the friendship of the power- and the dreadful, your friends were revealed to be heretics. A Comely Courtesan’s biography called you a skilled and insatiable lover. Some say he seduced the Abbess of the Rawhidden Nunnery to gain her support. And he then proved gracious in victory. It is almost enough to make you respect him. Almost.

Officially, you are a pilgrim, or maybe a missionary. There is a small stipend you could draw on, but you donate it to the poor. There is only so much mercy you can stomach, and there are only so many obligations you can risk to own to your greatest enemy.

You have been at sea ever since.