“I watched her kneel over a dying man like a mother once. Watched her circle one still breathing like she couldn’t wait, another time. Forty years between the two, and I still don’t know which was true.”
— Old Mag, as she tells it to anyone who’ll sit still long enough
Biille, Goddess of Death
You do not summon Biille. You simply notice, eventually, that she was already there.
Old Mag calls her patient. She’s a carrion goddess, content to let a life finish on its own terms. Others who’ve pledged to her say patience has nothing to do with it. She noses at weakness the way a starving thing noses at a wound. “Patient” is just what waiting looks like from the outside. Her own Clerics rarely settle it. Ask two on the same day and you’ll get two goddesses.
What no one disputes: her prayers curse, drain, afflict. Poison. Blindness. A cripple that won’t close on its own. Whether that’s cruelty or appetite, Biille has never once bothered to clarify. She doesn’t seem to notice there’s a difference.
Her Character
Waiting One.
Not regal. Feral. A scavenger’s instinct wearing divinity like borrowed skin. She doesn’t strike. She circles, and waits, and takes what’s already faltering. Reactive, not calculating. Opportunistic, not cruel. Whatever word you reach for, she was never asked and wouldn’t answer.
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