I spent ten whole days in Jerusalem

Jorseval death doesn't discriminate between the sinners and the saints The Wildwood at dusk was a hushed space, enough so that even in his bare feet the soft pattering of Jory’s rapid footfalls announce his presence. For all that he was a wild thing, he looked the part today; torso stripped bare to the waist and long tendrils of dark paint winding across his skin. He had his bow to hand but his hunt for game was long forgotten. As soon as he’d come upon the grove or red trees, he’d known he was close enough to find the god he’d sought out all his life. He’d learned of Ludo’s Woods while in the custody of the Fae; though his information was piecemeal at best. All that mattered to him was that here was a shrine to Mort and being so close left no room in his heart for patience. He dashed through the trees, dodging branches and franticly shifting his eyes from tree to tree. There! Jory’s eyes lock onto the pair of trees that stand sentinel, and his whole body seizes to a grinding halt. Like a moth transfixed, the candles that burn in carved hollows grip him and his only motion for long moments and his heaving breaths and a thrum of tension that he thought must reach to the deepest core of himself.  The notion that he isn’t ready for this flits into his consciousness, but no mortal creature is ever ready for the Gods. He steps to the edge of the roots between the trees and bends, a cautious reverence absent from his hectic dash now upon him, and places his bow upon the ground. His knives, too, are pulled from the sheaths at his lower back and presented, handle first upon the ground. “I have been late in seeking the Gods, and for that I am sorry. My knowledge is little, my offerings few, but I would offer my life, my service, for whatever that may be worth. To the Gods of Old, who shaped this world; to Mort, who takes us at the end. “ The prayer is quiet, but steadfast in the hush.