getting back on the job hunt is never easy. it's especially jarring when you've been resident avatar of Tsangoro, the Messenger's Hand for the last two hundred-odd years, and they were just deposed from heavenly court in a messy splatterfest of shattered arcane contracts, exchanges of covert spiritual sabotage and hurt feelings worthy of no fewer than thirteen occult phenomenology dissertations, seven conventions of clerical authority and several hundred hours of spiritual talk shows, podcasts, and godwatcher video essays. fortunately for Amaia, easing back into the life of the laity isn't so hard when you have the kind of connections that come with being an avatar, even the avatar of a disgraced deity, and before all the humiliating denouncements and official severances had run their course, she found herself sliding into the world of corporate law and its own arcane, otherworldly dictates as a paralegal intern at Inner Sumatra Lanthanides.
she and her felt-textured boss don't always see eye-to-eye, and she's never taken it on the chin about being cast out of the cloister to push pencils for a plush toy, but they share a certain kinship neither of them can quite put their finger on. what's more, Tsangoro's boons still make her a formidable presence in and out of the office, so nobody gives her too much trouble for slacking off and talking back.
