A M A L I A
She is slacking in her duties.
A lone figure approaches the shrines, golden hair shining in the setting sun. In one hand, a crooked staff; in the other what may be called a picnic basket, full of the best of the day's baked goods. One a pilgrimage made almost weekly, the girl has not done this in some time, distracted as she is by the onslaught of strangers and sudden busy bakery bustle. Still the steps of the temple feel familiar beneath her feet, the trail so predictable she could make it with her eyes closed: here, a hole; there, a stray root; to the left, a fallen pillar, creating a hole in the wall. And ahead, as always, the looming Spire, its dark figure a constant beacon, a reminder of the things once loved and lost.
She reaches the shrines as the sun starts to set, light streaking low through the empty rafters of the temple walls. In one corner she deposits the staff and pack, tucking them away neatly along with her shoes. Carefully Amalia opens her basket, extracting from it four decorated rolls which she carefully arranges around the base of the shrines: Caido, Rae, Mort, and, at last, Vi. And as she walks, she sings:
"Old Ones, fathers and mothers of the world, accept my gifts and gratitude:
"For Caido, who made the world as it is, that we may live upon it: I thank you.
"For Rae, who makes the wheat grow tall and the animals multiply, that we my thrive upon it: I thank you.
"For Mort, who ends the cycle of the world, that we may value the lives we live: I thank you.
"For Vi, who begins the world anew, that we may spend the day alive: I thank you."
At Vi's shrine the girl stops, falling into a reverent kneel. Legs crossing beneath her, she bows her head, barefoot, and lets her eyes drift closed. Amalia has never been blessed enough to be visited by the gods, but it does not lessen the reverence she feels, or the peace that prayer and meditation bring her often anxious mind.
