𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐳𝐰𝐞𝐢𝐠

Do you not think I remember the smell of leather in my father's workshop? Am I so old, in your eyes, that you think I cannot recall such details anymore? I remember, girl. I remember, each and every time I have to pass through the costume-makers' halls and some tanner is doing his job well in there. I remember, each year when a new pair of sandals are sent to me from the Council. In this place, the new year is always marked by the scent of newly oiled leather. I remember.

Yet, what I remember ever more clearly, is whose priestess I am. Shantij is far removed from a leather-world, for starlight is scent-less and at night, we go barefoot. Our sandals are left at the end of the bed. The goddess' scent is the fresh air that wafts through the open window when you sleep. It may go unnoticed, but you would surely perish without it.

So it is with many things pertaining to the gods. They are unseen essentials. They shape us, whether we want them to or not. In the end, we might as well hold our breaths forever, before we can cast off their yoke.

Do you not breathe, when you sleep, player? I assure you, if you do, how much more deeply do you not breathe during your waking hours?

And, then, isn't that the case for all of us.