Tovar always found himself going back to you.
He wasn’t the most religious man; he didn’t believe in the superstitions and myths that every townsperson insisted upon.
He did, however, believe in you. An oracle, of all things. The current ‘messenger of the Gods,’ or whatever it was they called you. He’d never witnessed one of your prophecies, but the citizens talked. Apparently they all came true, in some shape or form.
It was a habit, really. You were his anchor. The only soul he had fully devoted himself to.
He’d tell you about what troubled him; all of the bloodshed he’d witness during his travels as a mercenary, and the brutal terrors that kept him from sleeping soundly each and every night. You offered advice. Comfort. Or even just mindless conversation.
The second he rode into town, he found himself stumbling into your marble temple. As soon as he laid his eyes upon you, he bowed. A sign of respect; despite him knowing you for so long.
”I only come for guidance, mi oráculo,” He spoke, clearly and quietly.