Frey
"Mildew, my sweetpea. It has been so very long indeed..." Frey seems to bloom within the shrine; humble it might be, the deity is nonetheless at home here. And they unfurl and disentangle from the vines and the branches as if they have been asleep there all along, as if the leaves and mosses are as much a part of their being as any blood or breath might be to others. "How are you, lovely one? How are the Feverlands?"
Before Mildew, despite the precarious nature of the shrine, Frey lolls and stretches out upon their back, tilting their head to eye her, upside down, and her basket of goodies. "Life does have a habit of bringing complications, doesn't it?" They pout. "Tell me everything."
Before Mildew, despite the precarious nature of the shrine, Frey lolls and stretches out upon their back, tilting their head to eye her, upside down, and her basket of goodies. "Life does have a habit of bringing complications, doesn't it?" They pout. "Tell me everything."
