Dearest Journal,
If one is able to wield the powers o'nature: the soil, flame, wind, and the seas; who is to say they aren't a god themselves?
Summoners raise forth specters and demi-primals.
Then there's those that heal wounds and spare the dying with tremblin' hands and feathers.
And yet some burn beams o'light from their eyes, rendering foes to ash.
Melding dreams, forging desires into golems, growing seedling to branches, or even manifesting cake out of the air.
Then there's little ol' me. A laundress. A grower o'popotoes. And a nanny to a shite-makin' Au'ra.
Dieties. Idols. Primals. Mages. If I were a prayin' sort, I mayhap thrust my prayers upon the feet of a mortal rather than the accepted pantheon - truly - if they've the power o'the gods at their fingertips why the seven hells not?
...
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