It's damp and cold, and although neither of those things would feel welcoming to most people in most places, in this place, they do feel welcoming to Tuesday. It hadn't always been that way, but regular visits to the spring beneath the Church of the Ceaseless Downpour had resulted in a strange sense of familiarity, especially given how much her Legion enjoys the dark pool.

Beneath the surface, they lurk even now, and Tuesday knows this well even when she can see no hint of them. There's no bellow, no call from below, only the echoing of droplets of water as they drip into the pool from stalactites as sharp as needles.

It's peaceful.

So, almost as if not to disturb the peace, she casts her line, sitting at the usual spot by the spring with her fishing rod in hand.

Of angling and the art thereof I sing
What kind of tools it doth behove to have
And with what pleasing bayt a man may bring
The fish to bite within the watry wave.
A work of thanks to such as in a thing
Of harmless pleasure have regard to save
Their dearest soules from sinne and may intend
Of pretious time some part thereon to spend.