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.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

The Spider checking its web finds several moths that wandered in and—oh!—a fairy too. Must save that one for a special occasion, yes.

What else, what else… Hey, is that…?

Ah, yes, it is! A familiar sight, a pretty creature in loose-fitting black robes, a priestess.

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

Her goddess is dead.

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.

A bolt of light streaks through the air, faster than the human eye can track, aimed unerringly for my servant's heart. A blur of motion intercepts it, and with a sharp crack of sound, the magically charged arrow is deflected to the side.

Good puppet. Well done.