One of the clerics of the church, a young woman who seemed to be tending to a suitcase far larger than her own size, along with what looked like a metallic weapon that felt like it was taken from a ship. A metallic piece of pure brutality, silver in color and wiped with smoked sweet-scented oil and incense sat not too far from the gate's entrance. The case lay open like a coffin for a saint who had never been one. Upon a closer look, anyone would realize that this was nothing but an anchor. A chain anchor.
The anchor's flukes were honed to a mean beauty. The shaft bore nicks that had been polished rather than erased. The oil curled up in pleasant little ghosts that did a poor job at disguising the nature of the thing beneath.
