Ilde goes back and forth, often, on whether she thinks living gods that touch lives with their own hands make for a more powerful faith or a more complacent one; then she stops thinking about it, because it isn't a thought exercise in Baedal and passing a great generalized judgement on Twelve Point devotees is just rude, among other things. She thinks of Fish, and how it had seemed personal most of all, and how she'd envied him, and how strange it felt to be included.

The gods of her world are dead, and so is she. She doesn't think about any of those things, wonders if it's selfish - rude - to ask a goddess she doesn't understand for a blessing, and lets the sense of unfamiliar magic sink into her skin.