The Priestess prays with fervent obsession. Her belief is sincere. Her devotion is absolute.
Her goddess is dead.
There is no one and nothing watching with appreciative eyes out there among the myriad stars in the heavens or within the writhing under-real between moments. Her prayers go unanswered, sacrifices forgotten.
She, nevertheless, remains utterly devoted, body and soul.
Such pure worship does not dissipate easily. It flows, it pools, it finds its niche. Above all, it demands a worthy destination.
Her lips pour prayers in a steady stream. Belief pools in every joint. She sweats devotion.
Others take notice.
A certain kind of lost creature is always drawn to a sincerity of faith that burns brighter and casts darker shadows than anything else in their life.
Her followers ostensibly worship the Priestess’s long-dead goddess, but truthfully, deep in their hearts, they worship Her.
The cascade of power from their belief changes Her.
Slowly at first, then gaining momentum, She changes before their very eyes. What is a human body but a chrysalis to emerge from, anyway?
She Emerges, dark and terrible and very much alive, as devoted to Her priests and priestesses as they are to Her.
How many other gods can say the same?