The scent here changes subtly-- rot. Stone. Vinegar. Withered apples. There are shrines set along the walls- shrines to small-gods and old, old wonders. Assorted hideousness. The peaceful air is illuminated by blue-grey torches, casting eerie light over these tiny priestless idols. You are in the Chapel of Forget, the wizard's church to unworshipped things.
The Chapel of Forget
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Keep your head low, your voice quiet, here, my friends. Do you see that larger altar, in the center and just ahead? That is the shrine of the Blind Prophet. You know him, though you probably don't know how. He is the feeling of learning something you weren't meant to know- as petty as a journal that didn't belong to you, as ominous as a beached leviathan who cried out to you as its own weight suffocated it. He is a fool, perhaps the Fool. He knows everything, and that is as close to madness as a god usually comes. Usually.
Among these other little gods of unworshipped things, he is like a lord or a king. These are the hiding-gods, those who ask for no worship. They can be terrifying-- Our Lady of Rotting Leaves, the Threat of Storms, the Father of Heretics, the Toymaker General, the Splintered Man. They can be beautiful-- the Queen in Iron Chains, the Grand Celebrant of the Bath, the Gleaming and Gloaming Ladies, the Applemas Walker. They can even be strangely human-- Mirror's Legion, the Dreaming Lords, the Sweet Bitters and the Shilling Barber.
Their names mean nothing, for now. I am their only custodian, really- but I love them all the same. A god doesn't have to mean something, it simply has to be, to show its face often enough that we give it a place among our day-to-day. Your little superstitions are their prayers. Your memories are their domain, where they are strongest. These are gods of sentiment and silence. Walk with me among them, won't you? Maybe you'll find one you recognize. Or one that you want to.