Wraithvine finds a temple out in the woodlands that is dedicated to aiding all those who come seeking no matter who they are, or where they come from. The temple has several worshipers and a single cleric. And whose face is it upon statue of the god in the place of honor and worshiped within? Wraithvine hirself. -- Anon Guest
Temples were always hit-and-miss shelters in extremis, and Wraithvine was a little bit dubious regarding the kindness of those strangers. The least one could expect was an attempted conversion with a sermon on the side. However, in a null-magic zone, one had to make do.
And the weather outside was frightful.
It was a temple made to meet needs. A kitchen had a pot of stew going and someone was baking fresh bread. Someone else handed hir a fresh towel and welcomed hir as 'sibling'. Wraithvine wondered a little about that until ze saw what the holy symbol of this chapel was.
It was a patchwork wizarding hat. Much like the one the cleric wore. Very much like the one Wraithvine had propped up near the fire to dry. Otherwise known as the wizarding hat that ze had been wearing and repairing since time immemorial[1].
There was an effigy. An Elf in a wizarding hat and some variety of highly practical clothes, down on one knee and offering a helping hand.
There were offerings. Not just votive candles, but packages of food made to last. Not for Wraithvine-the-god, but for the next person who was hungry. There were garments, too, for those who needed them. Patchwork seemed to be a popular theme, there. And socks. Lots and lots of socks.
It was an amazing likeness.
Wraithvine waited until the bustling slowed, working on some crocheted squares to add to the donations. They would become something useful eventually. "Is this the first such church to the eternal Elf?" ze asked.
The cleric, who definitely clocked Wraithvine in the first few seconds, smiled. "The first such in this area. It's not a popular faith, you understand. There's something about helping others that doesn't appeal to many with the position to become devoted."
"You pray to hir?"
"On occasion. You don't answer."
"To be completely fair, I haven't heard anything of the sort. Perhaps Wraithvine-the-divinity is still growing from these seeds," a gesture towards hir stone doppelganger. "Or, perhaps, if you listen enough, you might hear a whisper or two." Ze shrugged. "I was never good at theology. What do you pray for?"
"I had prayed to know I was doing the right thing. For you or your voice to say this was right." A very hairy eyeball hir way. "Have they been granted?"
"It's not often your deity turns up in person, I suppose." Wraithvine looked around. This was more hospice than temple. Lines were strung across the rafters to dry wet clothing. The pews turned into beds for those who needed sleep, and a few spare mattresses lurked in the rafters, waiting for someone who needed them. A workroom off to the side showed a small apothecary's worth of herbs drying and simples in progress.
"You see to the needs of others," said Wraithvine. "If you see to your own needs, too, without greed... that's all I could want."
"May two kind hands guide your way," said the cleric, who blushed to realise who they were blessing.
"May two kind hands see you safely through yours," said Wraithvine.
It was a nice church. Wraithvine hoped to see more of them.
[1] On Alfarell, the paradox known as The Ship of Theseus is told via The Hat of Wraithvine.
[Image Jorge De Jorge on Unsplash]
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