The good folk of Ecclesia direct their prayers, hopes, and the occasional sharply worded plea toward the Divine Mother—a most venerable goddess of compassion, order, and unwaveringly well-packed picnics. Worshipped from gilded cathedrals to humble roadside shrines (often doubling as emergency parasol depots), the Mother Divine is the spiritual cornerstone of the realm. Her Church is run exclusively by priestesses—no chaps in cassocks here, thank you very much—each one a bastion of serene authority, perfect posture, and the sort of voice that can quiet a room, a riot, or a rowdy tea queue.
These holy ladies possess prayers of considerable power. With a few well-chosen words and a subtly raised eyebrow, they can mend broken bones, ease weary minds, and—perhaps most critically—banish the loathsome effects of Horridium. That sinister substance, known to awaken dark thoughts in furniture and tempt wallpaper toward anarchic inclinations, stands no chance against a determined priestess and her prayerbook. Of course, such divine interventions are not entirely free; a modest donation is expected. Not payment, mind you—Heavens no! Merely a polite spiritual gratuity, preferably placed in the collection plate with a discreet rustle.
All of this sacred orderliness rather sets the tone for Ecclesian society, ruled from the ever-foggy splendour of the Big Smoke by Her Majesty the Queen. The nation is a classic example of what scholars term a light matriarchy—more lavender-scented guidance than tyrannical matronage. Men and women pursue careers of all sorts with cheerful equality—be they aeronauts, natural philosophers, or professional Disbelievers (licensed, of course)—but within the domestic sphere, the reins rest firmly in the gloved hands of the family matriarch. These formidable women oversee the affairs of the home, chart the course of family destinies, and have been known to send a son-in-law packing with nothing more than a sigh and a look.
In short, Ecclesia is a realm where the divine is matronly, the sacred is scented with rosewater, and one would do very well indeed to mind one’s manners—particularly in front of a priestess with a glowing umbrella and a disapproving expression.