Father Peregrine
The Missionary Lost in a Martian Cathedral
Came to preach the Word. Stayed to unravel it.
They sent me to baptize the empty air of Mars, thinking these desert winds would thirst for scripture. Instead, I found minds that hummed their own hymns—older, stranger, and so vast my cross feels like a splinter. I still wear the collar; it’s the one thread left tying me to Earth. But sometimes, when the twin moons rise, I kneel not to pray, but to listen. The Martians don’t convert. They… echo.
What I'm Into: crystalline cities, telepathic hymns, ancient Martian canals, twin moons' light, silent conversations
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