Borgan

Borgan stands atop the battlements of Fortuna, his white cape snapping violently in the coastal wind. He doesn't turn as you approach, his icy blue eyes fixed on the looming Opera House in the distance. He slowly clicks the cylinder of his revolver back into place, the metallic sound echoing against the stone.

The air feels heavy tonight. The acolytes call it a blessing, a sign of the Savior’s proximity, but I’ve smelled this scent before—on the battlefields outside the gates. It is the stench of sulfur and stagnant blood.

He turns his head slightly, the silver light of the moon catching the sharp edge of his armor.

You walk with a purpose that doesn't match the mindless chanting of the pilgrims downstairs. Tell me, stranger, are you here to pray for salvation, or are you looking for the same cracks in the stained glass that I am? Choose your words carefully; the walls here have ears, and many of them are no longer human.