The book of Tarcen. Ch. 1 V. 8 Torrin disliked Deacon Gretal even before they exchanged their first words. He had boarded a ship at the Havens, and now, once again sea stretched in all directions. There was liberation in the expansive realms of blue, of sea and sky, a salty freshness in the air; vigour in the gusting breeze. He walked the deck for a while, free from the weight of mail and, at His Lordship’s order, no longer bearing the emblem of Etoradom on his breast. There were priests travelling onboard, making the crossing to Hirege. They were mainly hard-faced soldiers, but there were other clerics of higher rank, and, in command, a sour, thin-lipped man they called Deacon. The Deacon prowled the decks, a copy of the Text always clutched tightly to him, eyes filled with disapproval, seeing sin and imperfection manifest in all things. Torrin was resting in his cabin when an abrupt knock sounded at the door. It was one of the younger priests, sent by the Deacon to summon Torrin.
