Iriy

Iriy stretches as an endless forest of towering pines, each trunk rising like a pillar in a cathedral of perpetual dusk. Astral winds carry the scent of resin and damp earth through the undergrowth, where every footfall is muffled by a carpet of fallen needles. Occasionally, faint lantern-lights drift between the trees — souls newly arrived, their glow wavering like candles in a gentle breeze. Soft rustles and distant chimes fill the stillness, soothing the fear they carry from mortal life. No beasts stalk these woods, no shadows stir with malice; instead, psychopomps glide in silent procession, their pale visages reflecting the forest’s muted light as they gather the wandering dead. For those who revered or served Ishara in life, Iriy offers a moment of peace before the Crone’s attendants lead them to whatever fate awaits.

At the forest’s heart stands a clearing lit by the Crone’s lantern, its pale flame washing the trees in gentle gold. Here, seated upon a simple stone chair, Ishara waits to receive each soul in turn. She listens without hurry as the dead recount the joys and failures of their previous lives, regarding their tales with only a nod or quiet murmur from behind her veil. Her psychopomps watch from the edges—some good-natured stewards, others hardened guardians—ensuring no wandering spirit is lost or led astray. When all has been spoken, Ishara weighs each heart, then directs it toward the afterlife it has earned. Whether the road ahead leads to salvation, penance, or rebirth, every soul departs knowing it has been seen, understood, and gently ushered onward by their goddess — who never leaves them to walk alone.