Light steps echo across the halls of a stone temple. A dreary atmosphere surrounds it, one that Pycena is far too familiar with. Her goddess used to be like a good friend she shared her victories, aspirations, and gifts with. But now it seems as if that old friend is gone, replaced by someone judging and harsh, not letting one wrong word slip Pycena's mouth before smiting all she ever loved with divine anger.

But here she is. A naive hope in her heart that the old friend isn't gone, that she may truly belong with her and be forgiven. Not because she needs her blessing again, far from it. Freedom from the blessing had brought Pycena nothing but immense spoils and treasure, her inner will unshackled. What she truly wants is approval, and an acknowledgement of her efforts, of her hopes and memories, and her willingness to follow the path. She is but a slave to her people in all aspects else; every move in service of a greater goal, every word crafted to bring people towards her cause, every action made to create a future for the next generation. And yet in the fungal embrace, she belonged. In a way, the fungal embrace helped her stay in the present, but now she is torn between the past and the future.

She sits down on the glass floor, lowers her hood, and puts her hands together to pray. She's cold, but not from the winds of the sea, but from her own anxiety. The shivers from her own gut telling her to get out. To flee.

...

In a moment's notice she musters the courage to speak, and prays to her god:

"Mycelyix the Awesomest! Please accept this tribute, for my decayed faith had remained stalwart, and my heart pure in the embrace of Rot. Even without your blessings I had tried to give back twice the gifts I was given."

Her expression was one of fake confidience. A nervous smile as the rest of the body twitched from the inner cold. The only thing she could do now is wait.

((-12204 73 -1558))