#mercystar

Blushweaver popped a grape into her mouth before offering the bowl to Mercystar. The other goddess sat on the other side of an over-stuffed couch, legs crossed primly. Her face and figure were gorgeous as always, their radiance managing to almost atone for the sin of the hideous gold and orange dress she wore. The ruffled skirt and fitted bodice clashed terribly with the yellow tufted cushions that seemed to cover every surface in the elaborate sitting room of this gods-forsaken palace.

Colors, thought Blushweaver. If I had to live in this hideous place I’d have given up my breath long ago.

Despite the horrors surrounding her, the Goddess of Honesty and Interpersonal Relations managed to hide her disgust and smile benevolently at Mercystar.

“So anyway, we were talking about prudent preparations,” she said earnestly. “Lightsong and I have decided it’s wise to consolidate security phrases for the Lifeless so that if one of us is…indisposed…the others can step in. It's clearly what's best for Hallandren, don't you agree, dear?”

Mercystar furrowed her brow, obviously thinking hard.

“But…aren’t the phrases supposed to remain secret?” Her voice was slow and girlish. “Did Lightsong really agree to this plan? He was here just the other day and didn’t say anything about it. Maybe we should wait and ask him.”

Blushweaver seethed internally. She glanced around at the priests standing on the outskirts of the room, faces stoic. No one was going to give her what she wanted, it seemed. She didn’t want to wait for Lightsong and she only partially trusted him, anyway. It was always highly suspicious when someone refused to be seduced by her. Not a single person besides that frustrating man had ever rejected her advances during the fifteen years since her return, in fact.

The thought suddenly gave her an idea…