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In the silent confluence of the crosswinds of the world, there raised from the howling sands a great circular mesa. In frowning reprimand of the ceaseless screaming of the void beyond, a statue of a dead god called out to her flock from atop the cliffs, overlooking the valley inside the mesa like a saint atop the roof of a chapel guiding its flock in prayer.
The land stunk of death, it seeped into your clothes and rolled like a mist into your throat such that even with a close mouth you could taste the mold and rot. Here, where there had once been the greatest of nations, now laid only corpses finally freed from an unnatural stasis.
Hornet had sought that they be freed… She had only not expected this decay to be so prevalent, so all consuming when the reaper finally had its way with the flesh and bone of long lost minds. These days she spent most of her time atop the cliffs, no longer protector but simply an observer of the winds outside. No one came to hallownest anymore, the horror of it all enough to make warriors vomit and the call of now dead gods no longer compelling unnatural attraction.
Hornet was alone atop this howling cliff, She was alone in the caverns and the tunnels and the open skied hamlet of dirtmouth. Shakily, she inhales fresh air, the stench far behind her but still radiating from the surface in the cracks and holes that lead beneath.
The Bastard Weaver looked up to the statue of the god, her only company in this world, and she tried to read its expression. It was covered in carefully hewn stone made to look like fur through some magic of craftsmanship, and all she could see were the eyes. Eternally caught in the glory of maternal bliss, like the spring sun upon its saplings. At once she had considered defacing it, this lying statue, but never could she raise her blade against it.
How much context had been lost to history? Who had loved this being, and who had it loved? When the final scraps of flesh were turned to soil and skeletons to dust, would their later suffering even be remembered? Need it be remembered? Could not future peoples instead find hallownest, and see that it was a land of love? Of people who loved their gods, who built statues and graveyards and tramways out of the love a son has for his father?
When the rot was finally gone, could not Hallownest be remembered as it never was, but could have, should have been?
A lie might remain a lie, but when she was gone there would be none to recall the truth. There was enough misery in this world, no, she would not deface the statue.