This particular godling manifested as a phantom mountain. It wasn’t much of a mountain, nor much of a god. But it was young, and gods aged at their own pace, some coming into being and passing away within an hour, others taking millennia to find form. The mountain was little more than a faithful puppy. It followed her everywhere, existing in some shadowy realm between the heavens and earth. Few could sense it. Even fewer could find it. But to the Red Woman, it was as real as anything else and never far away in the metaphysical illusion of distance. So she’d made it her home.

She stopped to catch her breath. She was very, very old and felt every bit her age on days like this.

Her raven flew ahead and called to her. “Come on now. Just a little farther.”

She nodded as if she needed the encouragement, as if she hadn’t taken this climb countless times before.

“I don’t know why you don’t just move to one of the lower caves,” said the bird.

“I’m comfortable in my cave.”

“Maybe so, but one of these days you aren’t going to make the climb.”

She silently agreed. Though nearly ageless, she was still flesh and blood. And flesh, even enchanted flesh, withered beside the antiquity of stone. She hoped with a decade or two the mountain might understand enough to provide her with stairs. It’d already given her something of a path to work with. Not much of a path, and there were portions she had to scramble over stubbornly. But it was a sign that this burgeoning godling understood something of her comfort.

The Red Woman reached her cave with some effort. The mouth was deceptively small, and a bend in the tunnel gave the impression of shallowness. But the cavern was exceptionally large, and she needed all the space for her various duties. It would’ve been too much for her to handle if she hadn’t taken to drafting the dead. Dozens of zombies milled about their appointed tasks.