Thomas Langton’s rise to power is as improbable as it is unsettling to the noble houses of Thelidor. Born to a dockworker’s family in Veloria, Thomas was ordained in the temples of Stella Maris and educated in coral sanctums of the three pools. His sermons, rich in metaphor and mercy, earned him a reputation as a spiritual guide to sailors, soldiers, and the dispossessed. When young King Liam appointed him chancellor—bypassing the regency council entirely—Delia’s court erupted in whispers. A priest of a foreign goddess, with no bloodline or banner, now stood at the boy-king’s side.
The regency council regards Thomas with wary contempt. Caelthorn sees him as a destabilizing populist, Halebrandt questions his martial credentials, and Durnmere suspects Velorian manipulation. Yet Thomas remains unshaken. He speaks softly in council chambers, often speaking in metaphors and parables of life at sea, and his advice to Liam is measured, pragmatic, and laced with spiritual nuance. His popularity among commoners and younger courtiers only deepens the nobles’ unease.
Sister Nimue of Veloria is said to have mentored Thomas during his temple years. Their correspondence continues—cryptic letters filled with metaphors of tide, moon and stars. Some believe Nimue sees Thomas as Veloria’s quiet envoy, a bridge between realms. Others suspect he's being prepared for something greater in Veloria. Others imagine a mere quiet love affair between busy administrators. Their last meeting took place in a moonlit cloister above the canals in Veloria, where salt lanterns flickered and the tide whispered beneath their feet. Sister Nimue spoke of the goddess’s longing for union with the sky; Thomas listened, hand resting on hers, as if the prophecy were a poem meant only for them.
Thomas, for his part, claims only to serve the goddess and the crown. Whether he is a prophet, a pawn, or a power unto himself remains the question that haunts Delia’s marble halls.
He walks with salt upon his sleeve,
and prayers stitched into every breath.
No sword, no seal, no noble name—
yet kings lean close when he speaks of death.
He drinks with guards, he laughs with scribes,
he listens more than most recall.
And when the moon is high and kind,
he leaves his north star on the wall.
Some say he’s sent from a sea maiden fair,
a whisper wrapped in holy thread.
Some say he’s just a clever man
who speaks for those the crown forgets.But if you’re lost, or low, or young,
and wonder what the stars demand—
you’ll find him near the quiet tide,
with salt and mercy in his hand.
I saw a star in the shell of my palm,
where salt remembers the shape of your voice.
The tide came whispering, within waves—
and with names I dare not speak aloud.You are the hush before prophecy breaks,
the ink that stains the veil of my sleep.
I dream of a crown made of coral and ash,
and a silence that bends the stars to listen.They say Our Lady seeks union with sky—
but I have seen her kneel in the surf,
tracing your name in foam and silence.