Divinity clings to nearly every being lingering in Beqanna.

A dark God bestows his blessing upon any creature that asks, even if that blessing comes with a sacrifice. His children have grown from a devoted disciplehood into a complacent majority. With that divinity came a normalcy, perhaps even an ungratefulness. Magic—the Divine—colors every inch of their world.

Hysperia hates her father for that. She was one of those embarrassingly delusional little girls that thought she was so special. That her life had some grand purpose for it, some ashen means to a shiny end. She believed she was written into some holy book—destined as a prophet, a leader, a savior. 

Hysperia was God Herself.

Divine.

And so Hysperia spurned the Sacred. She burned at the splash of Holy Water. She was struck down when she step foot in a place of worship. She was to be hunted for her heresy.

But within that blasphemy, Hysperia found her religion. She worshipped at the feet of the hurt little girl burrowed deep in her chest. She offered blood. She offered tears. She offered life itself. At the altar she nearly bled her wrists dry.

Out of that dark temple she came after, cradling the little girl as she died.

Something important—something intrinsic—left with that child.

Abandoned, Hysperia blooms into something monstruos, something so selfish and scared. She feels the weight of all of herself when the cold breeze of late autumn tangles her hair, unable to shake her head to move stray strands out of her face.