[What Paloma knows of religion is that there is at least one god, and that god has decided she is going to Hell.
Which follows that there is a Hell, full of what she isn't certain, but there must be a great many souls like hers trapped there in the fires. To meet Final Death is to join them and, presumably, burn.
The undead crouches on the pebbles, arms wrapped under her knees and bare feet flattened to the shore. It's a couple hours till dawn. She can't wander too far away from the spire this late (early), but the beach is always close, so out she has come in the faded violet dress with its ragged hem she's taken to day-sleeping in. Since the flight from Caer Scima, the once-gorgeous fabric isn't pretty enough for anything else. And she's under the impression nobody is around to watch her watching this shrine with its bones and odd smells, questioning what kind of god it was built to.
With one light touch and her eyes reflecting firelight, Paloma traces the curvature of a charm.]
late-ass march, 9th spire
Which follows that there is a Hell, full of what she isn't certain, but there must be a great many souls like hers trapped there in the fires. To meet Final Death is to join them and, presumably, burn.
The undead crouches on the pebbles, arms wrapped under her knees and bare feet flattened to the shore. It's a couple hours till dawn. She can't wander too far away from the spire this late (early), but the beach is always close, so out she has come in the faded violet dress with its ragged hem she's taken to day-sleeping in. Since the flight from Caer Scima, the once-gorgeous fabric isn't pretty enough for anything else. And she's under the impression nobody is around to watch her watching this shrine with its bones and odd smells, questioning what kind of god it was built to.
With one light touch and her eyes reflecting firelight, Paloma traces the curvature of a charm.]