She handed it over, the glass was pitted and rough in some places, showing signs of wear and tear. Some places had been scratched. But once it would have been a very beautiful marble.

"It's almost like the world, isn't it? A bit worn out but still green and blue."

That was an interesting noise, she tried to identify the language, but maybe it was just some screaming coming from inside the thing that had shaped itself into a man.

Wytch fetched her marble from somewhere between the worlds. It was a large dragonfly. Meaning it was blue and green. -

“I would never call my mother ‘mummy’, she would have made me kneel on dried peas.”

He was doing great, and it didn’t matter if the buttons didn’t quite do up, in fact his chest was rather pretty.

“You look wonderful!”

“Some people enjoy that sort of thing.”

“They call it waxing.”

“Do you burn it off with a candle?”

“How do you get your chest all smooth like that?”

Her head tilts to the side as he speaks and pulls the suit on, trying to make sense of what he’s saying.

“Your hair is very fluffy.”

Which it was.

“Reality would end. Not just the world. This is a very small and insignificant part of reality, really.”

"I'm glad, there's big spiders there. And they have strange names for their shoes."

Finally letting him go, she gives him one more look over, just to check that he is all there. Nothing missing.

Like a kidney.

“John!”

A delighted squeal and the Wytch is throwing her arms around his neck, dangling off him.

“I thought you had gone to Australia!”

“What is a Ryan Gosling? A type of goose?”

Slight eye-roll. They all preferred the sex part. She preferred the stabbing part.

"Okay, get the suit on. Before the world ends and it'll be all your fault."

"I like to be on top. Just so you know."

And it was nothing at all like what it presented to the world.

It didn't matter. Not to her.

She was smiling at the little rat-thing now her tray was full. Trying to smooth out her dress and remember where her shoes were.

"Do you still want to see my marble?"

Her work done, the bowl was presented to him.

"I like baking bread, I think yeast is very interesting. The way it makes beer. And the way beer was safer to drink than the water. I remember that. People were always drunk and children were often born a little wrong."

Whatever was lurking over her shoulder was none of her business.

Besides, harvesting eyeballs was a nice distraction from her usual work. And she made sure to give him four eyes of varying colour.

It's what she would want.

"You may call me Wytch." She finally glanced back. -

Now she'd need a new tray. They couldn't share an offering tray.

A large wooden bowl appeared, covered with slime mold on the inside, and firmer, fungus on the outside.

A God of rot needed a tailored bowl.

"How many? Is there a special number? Like seven?"

"Oh, I see."

She did see far more than the typical human. She could see inside them, for example. And into the higher dimensions where the other things dwelled.

It's why she'd been chosen.

"Eyes go cloudy before they rot."

Since he's hinted, she shifted to reach the eyes. -

A pain to remove, though.

Her job had just been to kill the cultists. Too many of them showing up tended to interfere with the way things should be.

This part… this was just for fun.

A heart this time, but once she’d inspected it, she tossed it aside.

Unworthy.

“The Blind Idiot God.”

“But you know how it is, serve one God, serve ‘em all.” Her accent slipped into the old London Cockney.

“How do you feel about lungs? I think they’re ever so pretty.” -

Her work continued. There were plenty of bodied. All in match robes. Shabby robes, but matching all the same.

A cult.

Her cult.

The cult of her God.

“Oh yes, it has a name. But lips such as mine are unworthy of speaking it.”

“It’s the Great Daemon-Sultan, the Blasphemer.” -

Some small organ that she didn’t know the name of was placed carefully on the tray.

“One time, I found a marble inside the long stuff. I still have it, you wanna see?”

“Collecting things.” She hummed, voice dreamy and soft. “My God likes to see interesting things sometimes.”

She picked up a shard of obsidian, her own hand being cut as much as the robed corpse she cut into.

“Livers and kidneys and … this thing…” -

The woman was crouched, hands bloodied, smears of it on her pretty floral dress. Knees red from where she’d been kneeling, and her feet were grime-coated.

Beside her sat a tray of black obsidian with edges raw and sharp enough to cut her flesh. -

“What if I didn’t do the stabbing and we did the sex part instead?”

There would still be an offering made. It just wasn’t as much fun as the heart stuff.

“I lift it above my head and the blood drips on my face and I present it as an offering to my God.”

“And if my God is happy, then nothing happens. And if my God is not happy, then the world, the universe, reality itself, all ends.”

“Oh yes, I remember. But you have given me gifts. Remember the bead that i swallowed that was a tiny you?”

And she had a bracelet he’d given her. A new one. One that hadn’t traversed her digestive tract.

“It’s sort of more just under your ribcage. And it’s not illegal, don’t worry! You won’t die.”

Just be in an enter al torment of the very last moment of life. Forever. And ever.

“You wear this nice suit and walk down the aisle and then say ‘I do’ and then we can kiss if you want and then I stab you in the chest, remove your heart and offer it to my God.”

“I’m Wytch! With a y, not an i.”

“You usually run off, so maybe I’ll give you sticky tea.”

Which wasn’t a thing. Instead she had a tray of Moroccan mint tea. Perfect for the heat. And in little glasses.

“What did you want to talk about, then?”

"Was it about the rabbits? They all vanished. I don't think they were really real."

All that to say, he could sit. Since she herself was taking a seat.

"Do we need tea for this conversation?"

But they taste good