fromthefog | Prayer Box

This is a place to send your prayers to the Fog god. She may not always respond, or she may respond in ways you don’t expect, but she is always listening.

Speak, she hears you.

OOC note: As of April 2020, threads with the gods will be capped at three NPC replies! Please keep this in mind when writing god prayers to make sure you get everything you need out of the thread. It’s also possible to handwave prayers by titling your comment HANDWAVED PRAYER. Handwaved prayers lack our usual flourish, but you can expect a faster response!

As of February 2024, god prayers will be handwaved only. Please only submit a prayer if you have a question for either god which needs answering in order to progress your character's arc within Ryslig. If this is something you need to tier up within the god boon system, or just to set up a player plot in general, please don't hesitate to submit a prayer about it! You may shorten it down to an OOC summary of what your character is asking. This will allow any of our helper mods to reply much faster, without having to dig into the specifics of either god's personality/writing quirks. Should this limitation be lifted again in the future, this note will be removed.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Like last time, almost nine months ago, Fiddleford calls on her early in the morning when the mists are still thick over Clipperhead Lake. That's what he and Marco have taken to calling the small body of water adjoining their house. Just his house, now. That's part of why he's out so early: he barely slept the night before. He looks like shit and he feels exhausted, but under all of that there's a kind of solid resolve.]

You probably already know about this but I figured I ought to do the thing properly. Just to make it official and all.

[He has to assume she does know. That she watches, listens, the same way Elias does -- but then maybe that wouldn't be her style? She's far more hands-off than most mothers.]

I'm joinin' up. I figured it was the least I could do after all you've done for me, now that -- now that there's no reason not to.

[Now that there's no Marco.]

And I'm never goin' to be like your priests, the ones that take your name and do awful things with it just because they can, but I get the feelin' you don't expect that anyway. This isn't about climbin' any ladders or changin' any minds, this is between you and me.

Edited 2020-04-05 23:45 (UTC)

[The mist on the water coalesces into a warped figure, hanging a few inches off the surface of the water. Her head tilted slightly to the side as she stares down at Fiddleford. Wisps of hair seem to flow outwards from her head, as if the figure was suspended underwater.

The lake seems unnaturally silent--even for an early morning chat, it seems as though a thick blanket has been draped over the landscape. The naga may get the distinct feeling that he's being scrutinized.

After a few moments, the Fog speaks in a warm tone.]

I welcome your worship, Fiddleford McGucket.

[The figure slowly descends towards the naga, feet and legs dragging through the ground and dissipating. When she reaches around eye level, she stops.]

I do not ask anything of you, my child, beyond your devotion. Embracing your monstrous form is enough.

[Ha ha oh boy. The other time he spoke to her she didn't manifest like this. It's a little different to put a concrete shape to her (as concrete as fog can be, anyway). To his credit he doesn't shy away as she gets closer. Four years ago he would have but four years ago he still thought gnomes were scary.]

That's partly why I figured I should. I haven't thought of myself as a human for a good long while now.

[He's well and truly naturalized. And if he's no longer railing against the body he's in, then there's no point in being mad at the person who put him in it. Privately he thinks 'worship' and 'devotion' aren't the right words at all, but there's no point in arguing with her about it. His particular brand of loyalty seems welcome either way. Getting persnickety the moment he slithers through the door would be a misstep.]

Thank you. For givin' me a chance, I mean, even after -- it's just, I did spend about a year makin' myself a thorn in your side and all. It's kind of you.

I do not blame you for seeking out the false god initially. Each of my children adapt to their changes in different ways, and...some seek to rebel. They cling to the illusion of control the false god offers, unaware that he is the one controlling them.

[The figure shifts, her outline wavering slightly. A sigh in the form of a sudden breeze passes over the lake, rustling the tall grass and causing the surface to ripple. She seems to regard the Fourth followers with the same weariness a mother may deal with rebellious teenagers.]

I have told you before--it's difficult to see my children turn against me. But one can only hope that one day, they may learn the errors of their ways and return to me.

[There's a brief pause.]

Dyster is open to you as a safe haven, my child. I trust that you will not try to burn it down in my absence.

[Is she...trying to be funny?]

Edited 2020-04-06 15:19 (UTC)

[Is she? Huh. He kind of prefers clumsy attempts at humor to the Fourth's performative childishness.]

Not on purpose, at least.

[He doesn't really think of her as a mother, so maybe he's doing this wrong, but he first began to respect her because he started to think of her as a fellow parent and not his parent. He may not have his son with him (thank god) but he knows what it's like to want nothing more in the world than for your child to be safe and happy. Thinking of her in those terms humanized her just enough.

What I'm saying is he'd probably have a glass of wine and talk parenting with the Fog God if she wasn't incredibly busy doing Fog God things.]

It's your other followers I'm worried about. But we'll take that as it comes.

[He has a sneaking suspicion Amanda will try to throw him bodily out of town.]

I am sure they will adjust. My other children are not their enemies.

[But if taking down a few Fourth priests will help her cause, so be it.

The figure wavers slightly, raising her arm and reaching towards the naga with spindly, dark fingers. For a second, it looks as if she might try to grab his face, but her hand stops a few inches short. A cold, brisk wind picks up over the lake.]

My child, will you accept the gifts of the Fog?

[For the first time he feels a hint of fear. Boy, that's close. Is she going to touch him if he says yes? He doesn't know exactly how he feels about that. But he does know the answer to her question, and he's stronger than he used to be, so he swallows back that momentary hesitation.]

Yes.

[The wind whips up with even more ferocity--the fog should have been blown away by now, but it stubbornly clings to the air around them. The figure plunges her arm into Fiddleford's head, the mist dissipating where it makes contact with his skin. It doesn't hurt, but it's not exactly pleasant, either. It feels as though something very cold and wet is squirming its way into his eye sockets, rooting around and trying to find a place to nest.

It's difficult to tell how much time passes, exactly--maybe only a few moments, maybe several minutes. The squirming sensation stops, and a sharp jolt of pain indicates that--]

It is done.

[The figure gently pulls her arm out and floats back, the fog reforming into the shape of a crude hand. The pain disappears as quickly as it came.]

I trust we will see each other again, my child. I am always ready to listen.

[There aren't any features on the figure's "face" to indicate any expression, but it almost sounds like she's smiling.]

[mom holy fuck]

[Yeah. Yeah, what else did he expect. This tracks completely.

A long time ago he and Marco used to talk about her in terms of something like this. How far she had her claws sunk into them, metaphorically. Now that it's literal he can't say he's surprised. The difference is that now he's asked for it, rather than it being something that he's trying at any cost to avoid.

Things really have changed in four years, haven't they? He's come so far from that boat full of skeletons she put him on. He blinks in a very unpretty way until the sensation fades away.]

I'll... thank you. I'll keep that in mind.

Prayer Box

the day after his conversation with lust, so late march

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