Prayer Box

[fromthefog]

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.

Comments

4/6

[goryteller]

Hello, Fog God.

[Pause.]

This feels silly somehow.

[Pause.]

Sorry, I-- I'm not very good at prayer. When I think about life and death and God and all that, I usually just end up writing stories. You know, like, um: "a man walks up to a forest in the fog and asks, can you save my brother?"

[Pause.]

Sounds more like a lead up to a joke than a story. Or a prayer.

[Pause.]

So a man walks up to a forest in the fog, and he asks the fog, can you save my brother? Because he-- Because I don't what I'm doing in this place. I'm not interesting. I can't fight. If I tried to throw a punch, I'd probably break my thumb because I keep trying to tuck it into my fist all automatic-like.

All I do is stay inside and write stories. That's all I do. And I'm sure-- I'm sure you have a reason for bringing me here, but I can't see what it is.

If that were the only problem, that would be fine. I d-don't want to transform into a m-monster, but that's fine because it's my problem and my problem alone. If it's a punishment for past sins, I get it. If you want to turn me into a pawn because you like seeing me jump, I get it.

But my brother is sick and alone, and he's in prison for something he didn't do, for something that might be my fault, and-- and he'll probably be executed if I don't go back to help him, so please, please let me go home so that I can care of him. You can take me again once he's safe, and then you can do anything to me. Y-You can do your worst. I'll throw a million punches and break my thumbs a million times.

Please. Please.

[fromthefog]

As he finishes his prayer, walls and windows begin to rattle. Fog creeps into the area. . .under doors, through cracks, where ever it can seep through. A chatter, dozens of voices speak at once, but form a hushed, unison whisper. It’s as if they’re all right in his ear, a chill tingling on his flesh, their words only for him to hear.

“Such a sad story,” the voices quietly echo, all agreeing with one another.

“Child. I care not for whatever power you wielded in your former life. Human sin, the guilt that weighs on your shoulders… I wish to bury it in the ground. For you, all of you, to begin life anew.”

If only for a moment, the chorus of voices sounds joyous, but it quickly tapers off, solemn, and distance.

“But as I am now… I can promise nothing for him. There is a leech, a parasite that drains my power with each passing day… If I could drag you all from your wretched lives as mortals, my child, I would. But perhaps, one day. . .”

The whispers begin to fade, one by one, growing quieter and quieter.

“Be well, child. May you find peace in my gift.”

[goryteller]

"You mean if the Fourth God loses, you'll be able to save my brother?"

He knows that she's gone, but he can't help asking the question anyway. It's torn out of his throat like a cloth napkin in a hurricane, and he finds that his fingers are numb, all of his oxygen caught upstream in his pounding heart, his hyperventilating lungs.

He buries his head in his hands.

And he thinks.