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Down came Vantauk to the sea
his double looking back at he
The temple would never acknowledge how much it needed people like Vantauk. He would always be a deviant; far removed from the internal machinations of other lexarcs, publicly denounced, but never wholly excommunicated. No, the temple needed people who so fervently, so violently believed that one day they would be called on to cut their teeth on the bones of the meek.
The edge of Vantauk’s blade swayed just aloft the cobbles as he turned into the stormbreak quarter. It was an old haunt of his— Broken, empty. Long beaten into bloody silence. The breath stilled in his throat. Tonight, it was alight with laughter.
It danced beneath the lamplight, wearing his clothes, wearing his body, laughing silently with his voice. He— The thing that wore his mask. It threaded arm in tender arm with the destitute, the sauntiaq, the untouchable, until it finally set upon its favourite: A strapping young sentinel. The youth planted soft kisses on its cheek. It looked, very slowly, back at Vantauk.
He withered in quiet ways. What man could know how little he is needed?