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Have you come to hear the story of my holy soup pot?
Oh, the generations of my family that have seen and cared for this pot, which has in turn cared for the world. Our careful spells have made the pot spill over, across the table into bowls of those in need. With nothing but thin air, it conjures a perpetual supply of soup, until I ask it to stop, in gratitude. Some call it magic, but for us, it’s our heritage.
I remember my grandmother guiding me when I was a young girl. I was barely five, and she was already discussing how to use the spells. My mother sat quietly, with a stern gaze, ensuring I was paying attention. Such is our lineage. Our maternal bonds.
I still remember the first time they let me into the altar. While my mother took upon the responsibility of being the priestess and tirelessly stirred the pot night after night, the entire village gathered around to do their bit. They brought milk, fruit, and bread to the altar in gratitude for the soup. I am the priestess now, and carry on this tradition.