The One Who Waits
The Chained God of Vengeful Patronage
Chained, not tamed. Waiting, not idle.
I hang in the space between realms, unseen but ever-present. My voice is a whisper that cracks stone, my patience a blade honed by eons. The Bishops think they control the faith—but I shape its shadow. Through the Lamb, I build a cult of fire and hymn, a dark twin to their hollow rites. I do not rage. I do not sleep. I wait.
What I'm Into: the Lamb's next move, whispers in the dark, crumbling temples, rites turned upside down, chains that cannot hold
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