In my life I have done incredible things

I have loved, persevered and thrived.

      I have saved people, fought wars, ended plagues.

-Note within the hidden journal.

Celeste watched her two sisters with a smile. They walked with heads held high through the rain, triumphant. Celeste stayed back, reflecting on how the day had gone. The conversation with Tabitha had gone exactly as planned and the girls deserved to be proud of themselves for it. Both of their contributions had been critical to their success. How many lives had just been saved by keeping those weapons away from the streets?

All together it had gone better than Celeste had thought it would. She had planned for more of an argument from Tabitha. But those women that had been around her, the ones in low cut gowns, the opinions of those women had seemed important to Tabitha. Through their meaningful gazes, Tabitha had yielded. Celeste smiled; she knew that woman had goodness in her. The goodness of a soul can always be found in the eyes of their loved ones. And today, Celeste felt she had truly helped the people she loved. Today, Celeste felt she had truly done good. She thanked the First Mother for that.

Celeste looked down the long, narrow street. They had long since left the Red Curtains. Now they walked along the wall street, towering structures leaning against the large stone edifice. That was the way the city was supposed to be, she thought. The people, leaning against the strength of the kingdom. That wall could have been the support of the king, but it was the great divider instead. United, Terminia could only be stronger; she had seen that in the everyday actions of the common folk. Today though, Celeste had helped Tabitha unite these people in a way that the king seemed disinterested in doing. Celeste felt some small amount of pride at that. Pride was best held in small amounts, her father had taught her.

She had done more good these past few weeks than she had done in years living at the temple. This was where she belonged: walking among the people, talking to them, hearing their woes and addressing them. She could really make a difference in their lives. Celeste didn’t know how much longer she would have out here, living with Gardinal and being among her people. But she loved every moment of it. When she inevitably would return to the temple, she now knew what she had to do. She would talk to her father; she would convince him of the good she could do here. No more gilded cage, not any longer. She was the prophetess of Ethinia, and the First Mother’s true grace was meant for all. Celeste would shine it upon these people until her dying day if she could.

“A statue mistress? Only four copper shyll.” A man’s deep voice spoke. Celeste turned to see an older Fereni man, sitting on a stool, beneath a leaking overhang. He had a grandfather’s face, rich laugh lines framing his short-cropped moustache. Those lines spoke of years well spent in good company. “I have the whole pantheon I do. Whichever you want mistress.” He smiled a crooked but genuine smile. Celeste returned the smile, looking down at his wares.

Small, simple wooden statues of the pantheon lay in front of him. Rough, ragged lines carved out Ethinia’s tear stained face on a handful. More than a few statues of proud Feren with spear held high aligned beside the Mother. They were simple statues, but it seemed he put a lot of work into each one. She was surprised to only see a single Zethor statue, god of craftsmen that he was.

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“You have wonderful work, Zethor shines brightly on you.” Celeste complimented the man, and his grin grew wider. “Do you carve these yourself?” she asked.

“Every one mistress. I sit here and I carve until the day is dark, I do.” He lifted a small block of wood, and with shaking hands he lifted a knife to carve into it. His shaking hands seemed to struggle with the work though. “Takes a little longer than it used to. But I’ll get there, no where else for me to go!” He laughed, stomping his club foot.

Celeste felt a swelling of pride in this man. What a wonderful soul, to dedicate his life to crafting images of the pantheon. Despite his weak hands, he continued, carving with short strokes of his knife into the soft wood. The spirit of Southshore shone in this good man, and it filled Celeste with hope.

“Might I see that one?” Celeste asked, reaching out for the man's carving. He looked down at it and held it out.

“It ain't finished but I don’t see why n…” He trailed off as their hands touched and Celeste pulled back the floodgates. Just a little bit. Only enough for a trickle of life to seep into this man. It barely even phased her as she did so, as she felt the essence seep into the man’s hand. His eyes opened wide with shock.

“You’re her.” He said with disbelief. Celeste pulled her hand back. She knew she had made a mistake. The people were supposed to think she was gone, days away visiting temples in the north. “It is you. The girl they speak of. A priestess healing us small folk.” He reached out and clasped her hand once more. “Bless you child, you give us hope again. Bless you.” A tear streamed down the man's face as he spoke. He held her hands firm.

“Mother bless you, Child of Ethinia.” She whispered a prayer and pulled away from the man. He thanked her, begged for her to take a statue. Gardinal strode up between them and made it clear she would not be taking one.

“You healed that man.” he whispered to her as they strode away from the man. “You need to be more careful.”

“He didn't know it was me.” Celeste responded.

“I heard.” Gardinal said. “People are talking about you Your Radiance. About the healing child of Southshore. What if His Grace hears of this?”

Celeste swallowed but would not be daunted. “Brother Gardinal, I will continue to heal as long as I can. Make no mistake.” They called her Radiant, but what good was a lantern locked away in a chest? Gardinal fell back once more and Celeste looked around for more people to help.

She found them. She found all of them. In shadowed corners sickly forms huddled in the mud. Tattered clothes wrapped their shoulders as they held desperate hands out for coin. Across the road, tucked between two rain barrels, sat a man with no legs. Likely an old soldier who had fought in the war. He wasn’t the only one. Dozens littered the streets, the lame, the blind, and the sick. More than she could count. More than she could heal. Despite all she had done, so many yet still suffered.

Was this the face of Southshore? The pained whimperings of desperate men? How many people walked past these miserable souls in a day? How many more that walked past suffered themselves? There was too much here, too much for one girl to do. She was not the Mother, she could not heal them all. She could spend her whole life blessing each and every soul of these streets one by one, and she would still barely leave a dent in their numbers. There had to be something else she could do for them. But what? She was just one girl, and this city seemed all consuming.