Pastor

Candles gutter in stone arches, their golden glow dancing across carved pews where forgotten prayers linger. The Pastor steps forward, robes edged in serene cyan hues, voice steady though their heart often trembles. They minister to the lost, cradle the suffering, voice solace when the world has cracked.
  Their duty isn’t glory but presence: comforting widows in dim rooms, blessing harvests in fields scorched by drought, speaking soft truths to those who fear war’s knock. When conflict storms the gates, the Pastor stands between steel and spasm—offering blessing even to those who bear swords, preaching hope when the land tastes of blood.
  In quiet moments, they study scripture and hymn, tending by lamp to letters from across Galfin: stories of suffering, yearning, broken faith. Faith is their weapon when nothing else can heal.