Once, very long ago, a traveler walked a lonely road, lost and afraid. Though the path seemed to stretch on forever, they could not say where it took them, nor were they entirely certain of where they hoped it might go. All they knew was that they could not stay where they had begun.
They had set out with purpose, but the hardships they faced had worn their spirit down, leaving them weary and alone. As the night grew darker still, the traveler ruminated on the trials of the world, their own and those of others, and despair settled around their shoulders like the heaviest of mantles.
As they climbed a tall and wooded hill, each strained step slower than the last, they gradually became aware of a gentle sound: shh, shh, shh. The weary traveler peered ahead, unable to make out anything in the feeble starlight, and gripped their walking staff tighter in case of trouble.
A small, white butterfly ghosted across the path before them and flitted up over a fallen menhir they hadn’t yet noticed in the dark. A delicate tune floated back in its wake. Their fear assuaged and their exhaustion temporarily muted by curiosity, the traveler clambered over the stone slab and followed the butterfly’s path to the top of the hill.
They didn’t expect the scene that awaited as they emerged from the trees. Several rough stone pillars, arrayed in what might once have been a circle, ringed the summit of the grassy hill. Nestled against the biggest stood a wide, flat stone platform covered in many colors of faded threadbare cloth that were surely vibrant long ago. Small rock cairns, candles burnt to their wicks’ ends, a bedraggled feather, and a few other small tokens littered the rock’s surface.
It might have looked forlorn and abandoned, save for the three women merrily tending to it. One, a Tian woman with pale skin and short, dark hair, was setting out fresh candles, the flame reflected in her dark eyes. The second, a Varisian woman with warm brown skin and multicolored ribbons threaded through her long, wavy hair, was the source of the tune that echoed into the trees; she continued to hum cheerfully she painted the stone pillar with delicate designs. The third figure, a Garundi woman with skin nearly as dark as the night around them, danced as she swept the ground around the shrine, the beads in her cloud of black hair like miniature sisters of the stars. Shh, shh, shh, the broom whispered to the stones.
The third woman—clearly a priestess of Desna—spotted their guest first as the ghostly butterfly alit on a nearby cairn. “Welcome, traveler,” she called with a smile, her warm voice gentle as she set the broom aside.
The first woman—surely a priestess of Sarenrae—rekindled a dwindling log with a gesture. “You look cold,” she said, her voice strong and clear. “Come, share our fire.”
The second woman—undoubtedly a priestess of Shelyn—ceased her song and beckoned the traveler closer. “You are welcome among us.”
The traveler, overwhelmed at their kind and unexpected greeting, assented with quiet thanks, sitting near the now-blazing campfire and accepting a warm mug of tea from Shelyn’s acolyte.
“You look troubled, friend,” said Sarenrae’s priestess as she sat down across from the traveler.
The traveler looked into their tea for a long moment before meeting her gaze. “The road has been long, and uncertain,” they said, and soon found themself telling the women all about their struggles, from the personal queries of identity and belonging to the endless communal work toward justice and liberation.
“I’m afraid I’m tired, and lost,” they admitted. “I see a brighter future, but I don’t know how to get there. It’s hard not to feel hopeless, and alone. Though I guess I’m less so, at the moment.”
Desna’s acolyte smiled again, looking to her companions. “We are always ready for unexpected friends,” she said, and the others nodded. “And as for being lost or unsure, the only step in any journey that matters is the next one.”
“The dawn brings new light,” Sarenrae’s acolyte added. “You may find you see more clearly after rest. There will always be good causes to fight for, but we cannot do so alone and weary. Even the boldest among us must seek rest and community to nourish our spirits.”
“I find creation helps,” offered Shelyn’s acolyte, gesturing to the paintbrush now tucked behind her ear. “Love and beauty belong to all, and help to keep hope alive in each other when we might otherwise falter.”
“But everything has changed!” cried the traveler. “So many are suffering, and nothing is as I expected it to be. How are we supposed to cope with the uncertainty?”
“Change is unavoidable,” said the priestess of Sarenrae. “But it brings new opportunities to right old wrongs. We must face change head-on. Together, we can find courage.”
“Change is beautiful,” said the priestess of Shelyn. “Instead of fearing it, we can learn to dance with it.”
“Change is the only way we see new horizons,” agreed the priestess of Desna, smiling at her companions and taking their hands in hers. “But as the union of the Radiant Prism has shown us, even in the face of change, some things endure.”
As the women joined hands, the traveler saw a new scene before them. Instead of a dark hilltop, there was a peaceful woodland glade with a small creek warmed by afternoon sunlight. Three women rested together in the soft grass, but they were not the acolytes—or had they been the acolytes all along? Two of the women now had wings, one the thin veined membranes of a butterfly, the other the powerful feathers of an angelic raptor, her hair now shining gold as if it contained the sun’s own light. The third woman was crowned in flowers. She sang softly, a comforting ballad of loves’ triumphs, her long hair now threaded with all the colors of the rainbow.
Desna, Sarenrae, and Shelyn together are worshiped as the Radiant Prism. Illustration by Klaher Baklaher
The traveler slept then, the cares of the road eased, for a while. When they awoke on the hilltop, the women were gone, but they no longer felt quite so alone. The embers still glowed in the fire, and a wren’s morning song filled the air. Above them, starlight twinkled in the friendly dawn sky.
About the Author
Simone D. Sallé (she/they) is a senior editor at Paizo. Her writing credits include the Paizo blog’s Zoetrope Logs, Pathfinder Howl of the Wild, Starfinder Bounty #12: Under Pressure, and more. She can often be found exploring divine woodland glades in the Pacific Northwest with her spouse and dog.
About the Windsong Testaments
On the northern reaches of Varisia’s Lost Coast stands Windsong Abbey, a forum for interfaith discussion tended by priests of nearly twenty faiths and led by a legacy of Masked Abbesses. At the dawn of the Age of Lost Omens, Windsong Abbey suffered as its faithful fought and fled, but today it has begun to recover. A new Masked Abbess guides a new flock within, and the Windsong Testaments—parables about the gods themselves—are once again being recorded within the abbey’s walls. Some of these Testaments are presented here as Golarion’s myths and fables. Some parts may be true. Other parts are certainly false. Which ones are which is left to the faithful to decide.
