Brezindal

Brezindal hauls his altar on a dented handcart: a block of limestone wrapped in sailcloth, incense-stained and quiet until he strikes flint into it. A heavy minotaur with short black fur, scarred shoulders, and horns worn smooth at the tips, he wears a cleric’s mail beneath a salt-salted linen surcoat. Neutral to the bone, he counts wounds, not sides—three bandage knots for the guilty, four for the desperate. When prayers end, he stamps twice to settle the dust.