Post by Moira ap Eiluned on Nov 26, 2013 11:27:07 GMT -8
Moira knelt in front of the altar, and wondered why she was so bad at this. The altar was inside a large fold-out vertical chest, very nearly an armoire. Once, in what seemed another life entirely some days, it had held a variety of very naughty toys sent as a joke engagement gift to her and Hans from Ricky. Now the universe has very nearly finished sweeping the memory of Hans from all the nooks and crannies, and objects like this became strange relics, unattached to memory and sentiment for all but herself. The craftsmanship was lovely – part of the joke, Ricky being Ricky – and Moira found a bittersweet irony in repurposing it from an old passion to a new. She hoped its resonance with Hans would help her get it right.
So far she had to admit that she made a rotten disciple. She envied Hans and his effortless well of faith…faith in her, faith in the Dreaming, faith in his Dream. She had seen her own Goddess, felt Her power, wanted so much to give Her what she needed to grow strong in this world…faith, belief, passion, focus. But that core of Faith, that mad passion that she had seen in Hans’ eyes…that she could not seem to match no matter how hard she tried. She wanted to travel to Zirnitra’s temple, the one her last true priest had laboriously moved into the Dreaming, stone by stone, from its forgotten location in Romania. She wanted to kneel in its presence, absorb its strength. But Moira knew she could ill afford the time away from her work and her duties; now that she no longer had access to the Arts she had come to take for granted, travel time was a sad and needful consideration. Perhaps if she were a better disciple, she would find a way. Or maybe it was the opposite, if she was good enough it wouldn’t matter where she was. And that, she thought, was why she was so bad at this. Surely somewhere someone wrote a Holy Text on serving the Dragon Goddess of Magic? And if not, why not?
Again, for the thousand thousandth time, she wished Hans was here. He knew Faith to the bones, could have given her guidance, given his strength to her just by his presence. Instead, she was left to stumble her way along a path she could neither see nor truly understand. Moira was used to thinking, learning, analyzing, connecting. But the strength of Gods came from Faith, and from the ascendance of their attributes in the minds and hearts of the people. And now Moira, stripped of virtually all her magic, bereft of true Faith to offer, wondered what in the world she could give to her Goddess.
So again, Moira tried to pray. Kneeling, head bent, she focused on Zirnitra, born of the dream of Magic in all its forms, and tried to figure out what to say. Finally, at a loss, Moira simply prayed for guidance from Zirnitra – first for guidance on how to serve Her better, and then for how she and others might go about regaining their lost Arts, bringing back the magic that had been lost. It didn’t seem right to ask for aid without offering something, but she didn’t even know what to offer. So she also prayed for Zirnitra’s patience with Her most incompetent and fumbling disciple, and hoped against hope that Her Goddess would have pity and aid Moira and her people, despite Moira’s failings.
So far she had to admit that she made a rotten disciple. She envied Hans and his effortless well of faith…faith in her, faith in the Dreaming, faith in his Dream. She had seen her own Goddess, felt Her power, wanted so much to give Her what she needed to grow strong in this world…faith, belief, passion, focus. But that core of Faith, that mad passion that she had seen in Hans’ eyes…that she could not seem to match no matter how hard she tried. She wanted to travel to Zirnitra’s temple, the one her last true priest had laboriously moved into the Dreaming, stone by stone, from its forgotten location in Romania. She wanted to kneel in its presence, absorb its strength. But Moira knew she could ill afford the time away from her work and her duties; now that she no longer had access to the Arts she had come to take for granted, travel time was a sad and needful consideration. Perhaps if she were a better disciple, she would find a way. Or maybe it was the opposite, if she was good enough it wouldn’t matter where she was. And that, she thought, was why she was so bad at this. Surely somewhere someone wrote a Holy Text on serving the Dragon Goddess of Magic? And if not, why not?
Again, for the thousand thousandth time, she wished Hans was here. He knew Faith to the bones, could have given her guidance, given his strength to her just by his presence. Instead, she was left to stumble her way along a path she could neither see nor truly understand. Moira was used to thinking, learning, analyzing, connecting. But the strength of Gods came from Faith, and from the ascendance of their attributes in the minds and hearts of the people. And now Moira, stripped of virtually all her magic, bereft of true Faith to offer, wondered what in the world she could give to her Goddess.
So again, Moira tried to pray. Kneeling, head bent, she focused on Zirnitra, born of the dream of Magic in all its forms, and tried to figure out what to say. Finally, at a loss, Moira simply prayed for guidance from Zirnitra – first for guidance on how to serve Her better, and then for how she and others might go about regaining their lost Arts, bringing back the magic that had been lost. It didn’t seem right to ask for aid without offering something, but she didn’t even know what to offer. So she also prayed for Zirnitra’s patience with Her most incompetent and fumbling disciple, and hoped against hope that Her Goddess would have pity and aid Moira and her people, despite Moira’s failings.