Pacific City by Night
The priest is not from around here.
Clothed in darkness with the glint of silver at his throat and on his left hand, the priest arrived in Pacific City in the dead of night – unexpected and unannounced. Obscured beneath dark locks, his face appears youthful – yet the keenest sight can pick out the faintest traceries of imperfections, seeming not unlike the wrinkles have been ironed out of an old man. He has a gaze that pierces the very soul, balanced by a kind smile and the old world accent on his silver tongue. But what kind of priest carries a sword?