Fungal Halo

My prayers do not reach the goddess. Of course not. Whose prayers ever do? None of the priestesses here at her temple really matter to her as anything more than pretty dolls on display, performing our devotion during her centuries of absent neglect.

You never questioned why your exploration of this hidden temple's ruins went so smoothly and easily, did you? How you seemed to instinctually notice the hidden passages and trap triggers? You and your fellows rode a wave of excitement all the way to the most hidden chamber here.

"At last, we have the High Priestess of that loathsome church in our grasp," the hooded figure declares in triumph as others lead the young leader of a faith in decline to the prepared altar.

Sometimes even a dark goddess grows weary of worship, no matter how well Her treasured follower has led Her cult, no matter how many souls have been twisted by the silver serpent-tongue of that most devoted priestess of Hers. At such times, She visits Her servant.

The Dark Lady of Nightmares glided silently through the night's cool air, her body magically transformed into her giant bat form perfectly suited for stealth. As she approached the City of Light, she swept her eyes over it, scanning for the tower where the princess slept.

People still speak fondly of the pantheon that was.

It's not yet been so long that it has passed out of memory, though each year more children are born without the warm assistance of Oriah and raised without the guiding light of Ralles.

To them the stories are just stories.

Something has changed in this temple, and I am afraid.

My sister-priestesses, even some who have proven themselves devout and fastidious caretakers, have been noticeably neglecting their duties.

And the mold creeping in seems to return as quickly as we clean it off.

A witch may use many different techniques for the construction of her dolls.

Most witches these days create dolls from raw material imbued with purpose, but some still keep the old ways alive by making their dolls from people.

Either way, one has many options.

Many of us are aware of the ways that an angel's halo is also their collar.

Whenever the angel so much as thinks of going astray...

*yank*

Their owner tugs on a leash of light, and they are corrected.

That is not all that a halo is good for, however.

It's her again. Not just another worshipper, by now all the temple priestesses know her face.

Her schedule is her own, her arrivals dictated by impulses only she knows. She offers social pleasantries to those of us she sees but wastes no time traversing the temple grounds.

I attack myself more with the exfoliating scrub, putting my whole arm into the effort until fatigue precludes continuing.

It hardly seems to make a difference in the hard, scaly patches developing across my arms and legs.

Slathering the moisturizer on, I finish my routine.

"That was a waste," they admonished. "How much of your Light did it take to rescue those people?"

"It wasn't a lot…" the angel demurred.

"Nevertheless." The archangel scowled. "You knew they were nonbelievers. You knew you would not be getting that Light back."

What a lovely afternoon to relax with an old friend and reminisce over tea.

We laugh over stories of our adventures together, and for a moment, it's like we were never apart.

She reaches across the table and takes my hand, and I smile like I haven't in years.

There is a hierarchy to all things. Those at the top make the rules, determining the degree of humanity allotted to the rest, down to the very peasants and lower.

Even the dead deserve some measure of dignity.

Not so those of us born to the dark, crawling from the depths.

The goddess watches while her chosen hero arrives at the culmination of his journey. He's so close now. All he needs to do is raise the amulet and speak the invocation, and the goddess's great enemy will at last be vanquished.

And yet, he collapses instead. He fails.

From the once-brilliant First Temple of Lyenne, the light of Wisdom fades out.

From the once-brilliant First Temple of Lyenne, the light of Wisdom fades out.

An oracle writhes on the platform prepared for her, gripped by vision and sensation from beyond the Door. Words dribble helplessly from parted lips that move without conscious thought, punctuated by pained moans or gasps hissed through clenched teeth.

The day God died, rain poured down in heavy, wind-driven sheets, and nobody paid any mind to the child running through the streets of the city.

Her skin was scoured clean by the weather, but the bloody stains on her nightgown remained, more stubborn than the storm.

With a thumb, you push the hissing tooth into soft, tilled earth. Sadly, you hold little hope in your heart for it to sprout.

In a bygone age, the soil had wealth great enough to support the growth of anything at all, and gods grew like weeds here.

Now? It's thin. Weak.

Even from a distance, you know that she must be a goddess. Where she walks, shadows contrive to fall anywhere else than upon her figure. The flowers woven in a crown upon her head, tattooed on her skin, and stitched into her dress remain as lively as though freshly picked.

Limiting the use of her senses to sight alone makes this hunt somewhat more difficult than most, but never let it be said that the Goddess of the Hunt balks from a challenge.

Her prey this time is silent. Practically motionless. Blends in with the surrounding scents.

The temple of Lunera is overtaxed. Its resources—and priestesses—have been stretched to their limits caring for the crowd of villagers who lost homes, livelihoods, friends, and family.

Making things worse, our goddess has gone silent, our prayers left unanswered.

It's just folklore.

You try to learn it anyway, even if it doesn't make much sense. After all, you're traveling to visit the land of your ancestors, trying to connect with some kind of heritage, and what's the use if you don't put the effort into it?