Ghost.

The god of hard truths. Bitter pills to swallow. Crow to eat. Realities to face.

Most saw him as a cruel, harsh deity. Blunt and ruthless in his efficiency. But sometimes there is comfort in truth, no matter how sharp and cutting. Ignorance is bliss, yes, and false hope can be a security blanket, but it’s one that will shred in the wringer.

You kneel at his shrine, a goblet of dark wine held in your trembling hand. You’ve just received some of the worst news of your life.

You glance up at his statue. Tall. Towering. Imposing. His characteristic skull mask covering a coldly handsome face, the garb of a soldier over his muscled form.

You pour the libation out at the foot of the statue, tears dripping quietly down your face to splatter against the cracked marble beneath you. Your lips form silent words. A prayer.

There’s a dark rustling behind you. An overshadowing presence swooping down to stand at your side.

“What do you pray for, little mortal?” The voice is deep and gruff, with a distinct Manchester accent. “To be kneeling there so miserably with hands that tremble so.”

You don’t dare to look up. Is this a hallucination? Have you finally gone mad?

But no. His hand is solid on your shoulder, though it is as chilled as ice. His mere presence makes the temperature at the shrine plummet by twenty degrees.

Your breath catches in your throat as you tear your gaze from the statue to look up at the god that it is modeled after.

Ghost.