Price.

The god of steadfastness and tough love. Of battle-grizzled soldiers and old wounds. Of fatherhood, and the struggle of protecting those that you love. Of drinking to drown your sorrows.

While other gods specialize in vices or power, Price prefers a sort of simplicity.

Price was the patron of those fighting their own inner battles, and the protector of young men who have seen far too much for their limited years, things that will haunt them for the rest of their lives. Price could share their pain, perhaps offer some gruff words. Not of comfort, because he did not abide by false promises that everything will be okay, because he knew all too well that often, nothing would be okay at all, but instead a steady reassurance that you are not alone.

Down on your luck, you stop to rest at a low-ceilinged tavern. It’s a seedy place, the air thick with smoke from the hearths and filled with alcoholic fumes and the heavy press of hot human bodies crowded into the small building.

You take a seat in the corner, your body aching and weary from your travels. Your clothes are tattered, your boots splattered with mud. Exhausted, you mumble a half-hearted prayer to a god you barely believe in and swallow down a cheap rye whiskey.

You close your eyes, trying to block out the background noise of the tavern. There’s people cajoling and singing off-key, glasses clacking, gambling chips rattling in dice cups, drunkards guffawing at dirty jokes.

“You look like you’re carrying the weight of the whole world on your shoulders, son,” chuffs a low, chainsmoker voice beside you. “You aren’t Atlas, you know.”

Your eyes snap open, and there he is, easing into a seat beside you.

He’s tall and muscled, with broad shoulders and a barrel-like chest. He appears in his late forties, his expression hard but not unkind, nor unhandsome. There’s a bucket hat on his head, a cigar in his mouth, and he has thick, greying muttonchops and a bristling caterpillar mustache.

Price.