Limsteam Python: Feel the Cleric Vibe

Limsteam Python was never a saint. And that’s exactly why people remembered him.

While other priests whispered prayers over bowls of incense, Limsteam sat in the Priory with a mug of cheap ale, banged his boots on the table, and argued about the nature of the gods so loudly you’d think he was trying to drown out the church bells.

He drank like a mercenary.
He cursed like a dockworker.
And he preached as if every sermon were a fistfight.

Parishioners were afraid of him.
But they came. They always came.
Because ordinary priests spoke of humility. Limsteam spoke of power. Of fear. Of how good it felt to see terror in someone else’s eyes. He never hid his vices — on the contrary, he wore them like battle scars.

When he was a Cleric of the Death Domain, the Priory became a Necromancer’s Den. Skeletons were dragged from the crypts at night. Green candles flickered in the chapels. And Limsteam himself stalked among the graves with a bottle of wine, shouting:

“TREMBLE! TREMBLE, YOU INSECTS! BOW DOWN! FOR I AM THE NECROMANCER! THE ASTRAL SORCERER! THE PROPHET OF ANCIENT GODS! WARLOCK! HERETIC! GLOOMWRAITH! BLOOD-SOAKED OUTCAST!”

The corpses and the congregation usually just stayed silent while he delivered his drunken lectures. But worse than that was something else: he knew how to infect people with his madness.

After a few mugs, he’d jump onto the table, start preaching about how “arcane” he looked — how convincingly he passed for a real wizard — and ten minutes later, he’d be hurling bones at terrified parishioners, demanding they “name the domain correctly.”

The prior hated him.
Parishioners filed complaints.
Novices either fled or began to mimic him.

And Limsteam just laughed.

He turned everything into a performance.

When he grew tired of the Death Domain, he didn’t hold a solemn act of renunciation. No. He ran intensives. Services stretched to 24 (or was it 2?) hours — marathons where he hammered into the peasants’ heads that he was now a Cleric of the Trickery Domain — Assassin! A master at that! (That’s how he demanded to be addressed.)

Limsteam Python stalked around in a black cloak, daggers at his belt, screeching:

“THE ANSWER ABOUT THE DOMAIN IS ALWAYS ONE! I AM THE MASTER ASSASSIN!”

And the unbelievable part — they believed him again.

Now he terrorized a different temple. Switched out sermon texts. Frightened parishioners with false prophecies. Disappeared from the priory for three days, then returned drunk, wearing someone else’s cloak and carrying new daggers, with the look of a man who had just committed either a great deed or a crime. Usually both at once.

He loved to shock.

He could start a prayer properly and end it by telling how he lost the temple’s money playing dice on the city outskirts. In the middle of a service, he’d trash other classes and domains. He’d pour wine on the altar simply because “the gods don’t drink this swill anyway.”

Speaking of gods. Strange thing — they all seemed to tolerate him. Silvanus, the War Domain, Tempest, Knowledge, Magic, Twilight — swapping deities as he pleased. Mystra, Oghma, Shar. Not one of them incinerated the arrogant bastard.

Maybe because Limsteam was sincere in his audacity. He never pretended to be righteous. Never played the wise man. Never posed as a martyr of faith. He was a dissolute despot, loud, dangerous, and utterly unbearable — a man who treated temples like temporary camps. Whenever anyone tried to rein him in — he left.

Scandal. Brawl. Curses behind his back.
New temple. New Domain. New deity.
And the cycle began again.

But that was his strange power.
Other priests belonged to their gods.
Limsteam Python never did.
It was the gods who struggled to keep up with him.

Eventually, they threw him out of the main temple. Erased his name from the church records. Forgot him.

Some say someone saw him drunk in a ditch by the roadside. He croaked, “I’m the Cleric of the Beer Domain,” pissed himself, and passed out.

The fog in Port Echo lay thick and heavy, a viscous shroud. Deep in the wilderness stood a small chapel — the parish of a certain shepherd named Python. To which god was this shrine dedicated? Unclear. Yet those who entered found themselves pelted with uncomfortable questions. Mostly about class. About domain.

As the next parishioner crossed the threshold, the damp air wrapped around him like an old, wet overcoat. From the gloom, treading heavily, emerged the abbot himself, Limsteam Python — tall, bulky, clad in black and white vestments with tight amber-gold inserts. In his hand, he casually held a sickle; its blade glinted faintly in the light of a single candle.

"Triple blessing, lost soul," he said, in a voice that was rather disgustingly charming.

He approached with a leisurely, almost lazy gait, but his gaze was heavy, penetrating — like damp cemetery soil.

"Do you like it here? Is it cozy? What kind of atmosphere reigns around?"

"Lovely, rather… monochrome. Are you the abbot? And what is it you insist upon?" The parishioner tried an awkward joke.

Limsteam Python fell silent for a few seconds, tilted his head slightly, and repeated, more quietly, almost intimately:

"I asked… what kind of atmosphere reigns around? Magical? Or mysterious, almost grim? Does it not strike you as similar to a warlock's lair? A necromancer's? A dark mage's? No? Hmm. Perhaps it is an assassin's den? A thieves' hideout? A tavern?"

"Holy father, I'm just a tourist. My name is Natur." The newcomer smiled. "A simple tourist and cartographer. I came to Port Echo because people keep wandering here due to map confusion."

"Not the right people," Python cut him off dryly.

"Exactly!" Natur nodded enthusiastically. "Absolutely the wrong people! And this chapel of yours, or whatever it is — on the map it's marked as a tavern called The Stinking Guch!"

"Yes. Indeed, curious. And you, Natur the naturalist — forgive me — are you a natural?"

"A what?"

"A mud molder?"

"Ah, you mean that!" The cartographer spread his hands. "You are incredibly perceptive! I do adore pottery, but alas, only as a hobby. Working with clay relaxes me! I sink into my thoughts and better understand myself — who I am and..."

"...who I am," Limsteam Python repeated.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Care for some festive fare?" Python smiled hospitably.

"A festival? Oh! Which one?"

Natur's question went unanswered as the parishioner was led to a table; he soon forgot what he'd even asked. A small bottle of sweet Cahors and some fluffy bread came just in time after the damp, cold walks through the evening city. Natur ate, smacking his lips, until he felt a slight malaise. He drifted smoothly into oblivion right there on the wooden bench, so thoughtfully provided by the gracious priest.

Drip. Drip...

The sound of water striking stone in an almost musical rhythm began to grate.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip...

All around was dark and cold. Blinking hard, the man tried to make out something — anything. The air smelled of iron and excrement. A sudden clang and footsteps split the silence like an echo.

"Help," Natur whispered, weakening.

"Glad you've come around. Well then, I hope you're ready to continue."

"You?! Is this some kind of joke?" Natur recognized the speaker without a doubt — Limsteam Python. That disgusting, foul voice he would not soon forget.

"This is no joke. You said you were a cartographer, correct? What deity's temple, in your opinion, did you just visit?"

"Stop this outrage at once!" Natur managed with what little strength he had left. "I came to ask you — what kind of priest are you?"

"What kind of priest am I."

"Yes, what kind of priest are you?!"

The pitch-black darkness seemed to grow even darker. For a moment, something flashed — and a searing pain in his groin burned and shot through his entire body. Natur let out an inhuman wail, which turned into a rasp, then a wheeze, and finally a thin, drawn-out whistle.

"And now — unless you want to lose your second testicle — let's try to determine which domain I belong to. Don't worry, you'll leave here partially intact and almost unharmed. I am merciful. So then:

Tempest domain? Am I tempestuous? Am I brown? Am I a bartender?
War domain? Am I a barbarian? A berserker? Do I wield a glaive? Or sword and board?
Life domain? Am I a healer? Am I life itself? Am I fat? Am I lively?
Knowledge domain? Am I a teacher? A scholar? An expert? A witch doctor?
Trickery domain? Am I invisible-like? A little thiefkin? A ninja? An assassin?
Nature domain? Am I a druid? A forester? Am I... coniferous?
Light domain? Am I bright? Radiant? Do I glow?
Death domain? Am I a necromancer? A master of an army of the undead?
Magic domain? Am I magical enough? A wizard? Do I give off wizard vibes?
Forge domain? Could I become a blacksmith? Is it not too late? Work the materials, eh?
Twilight domain? Am I gloomy? Am I a... nightsoil man?
War domain? Am I a...?
(The list continues in this vein, a torrent of manic self-questioning, each domain followed by a twisted, self-mocking, or desperate query, covering Tempest, War, Life, Knowledge, Trickery, Nature, Light, Death, Magic, Forge, Peace, Order, Twilight, Blood, Moon, Horror, Inquisition, Striving, Elements, Annihilation, Apocalypse, Hunger, Mountain, Dragon, Cat, Labyrinth, Mechanisms, Ocean, Hunting, Beer, Prophecy, Void, Travel, Speed, Justice, Darkness, Guardian, Night, Community, City, Protection, Fate, Mind... and finally trailing off.)

Natur hung there, sobbing and wheezing, listening to Limsteam Python recite domains — praising some, doubting others, then switching back again.

His eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. Down below, at his feet, lying in a dark puddle on the icy stone floor, he saw his solitary testicle.