Vicar pakaquoia

Tradition: Thaumat

Status: Unknown

❝

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, in their eyes; far removed from the company of other Lexarcs, publicly denounced, but never excommunicated. He didn’t mind. All true prophets are hated in their time, and Vantauk knew the truth. There is evil in this world. One day the Temple would call on him to cut his teeth on the bones of the meek.

The edge of Vantauk’s blade swayed above the cobbles as he stepped into the Stormbreak Quarter. It was an old haunt of his— Broken, empty, and long beaten into a bloody silence. The breath stilled in his throat. Tonight, it was alight with laughter.

His 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?