Fungal Halo

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.

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.

When your eyes alight upon me, there is an ache within you, isn't there? Something you've always lived with. Something with roots deep down in your very bones.

I see you wrestling with it. I see your longing. There is a question on your lips you need to ask me.

"Are you me?"

I try to rise, and my knees buckle and give out, dropping me back to a seated position. I try again, steadying myself against the wall with my hand.

The pressure builds in my head, ignored, while I wonder what's wrong with me.

Then it occurs to me: she's coming back.

"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."

I'll kiss you and you'll fall because there is no other way for this script to go.

The ripples I make as I move in this world touched you from afar, and I see painted in your wide eyes in this first meeting that you were already addicted to me before the moment we first met.

It feels like a tug from another world. One moment, my life makes sense, the pieces my senses feed me all fit together with a satisfying click. The next, I lose my balance.

A standing fall, a wave of vertigo, and everything tilts imperceptibly.

Oh, dear pet, there is no need to flinch from me in fear. You surrendered your will to me, remember? You serve me now, utterly and irrevocably, and I have no need to make you suffer any longer.

I am not one to damage what is mine; I take care of my possessions.

They call this place an infirmary. They act as though this is a place of medicine, as though they offer treatment for the illness that saps us of strength and dignity and independence.

It is not. It is an altar on which they sacrifice us for the sake of worthier souls.

The body of the Saint of Error receives millions of visitors each year, some crossing truly unfathomable distances on their pilgrimage to the holy site.

Across seas of What-Could-Be and oceans of Never-Conceived, pilgrims make their journey.

Some, increasingly, are people.

The Priestess prays with fervent obsession. Her belief is sincere. Her devotion is absolute.

Her goddess is dead.