An offering to Freya in the north: a hollowed gourd of honey, poured across the stone at the base of the shrine, the pungent scent of boar and fir filling the forest air. An offering to Aphrodite in the south: narcissus flowers piled high on the sand, petals fluttering in the breeze always racing across the beach.

Within Cupid has grown an instinct to care, to nurture, to grow. Yet the island's piling absences have given him a great scarcity in targets for such an impulse. He fills the need instead in servitude to the patrons, leaning into the role of priest without once deigning to interpret his dreams or smoke incense to procure a vision. The dove-god buries his paws into the earth, attends to the holy plants and valuable herbs that flourish across the meadows and groves of the island.

He follows familiar game trails across the terrain with idle ease, sits by the side of the river. It babbles at him as he dips his paws and washes the dirt from under claws and between toes. Ruffled fur is combed with teeth, before a chirp from the wings, always watching, makes Cupid's ears prick. A twitch of his nose, a considering tilt of his head. Blind eyes don't shift to search for the approaching shadow. On the branches of a nearby birch, the wings warbles and preens.

Rhadamanthus

The Diplomats return from his long journey was met with the beginnings of the very celebration he'd been tasked to hand out invites for. The isle was brimming with shrines, bouquets, fermented berries and whatever boar had been chased down, butchered, and cured. Lively, in a way the isle had been missing for months now.

Rhadamanthus hadn't seen it this vibrant in months. It was a lovely, refreshing sight to behold, when he crossed the land bridge and made his way back home. And he hand returned empty handed! With him, either carried or stuffed into hastily-crafted pouches of hide, were a treasure trove of different oddities he'd procured during his travels.

Flowers that hadn't blessed the isle he called home, fruits he'd painstakingly picked by hand, talismans...he figured whoever remained on the isle upon his return would find something worth keeping, and he'd be more than happy to hand out a gift or two.

He is weary, upon his arrival, but relieved to have returned. Perhaps a little antsy to see wait awaited him. Hopeful that the fruit of Cupid's labor would draw the many folk he and Sindri sought to join them in this celebration.

All he wished for was that Skjoldrheim remained a pillar in these trying times. All he wanted to see was life return back to the island, and for the Kingdom to flourish once again.

Rhadamanthus walked a little slower, if only to soothe the ache in his joints. He strode with an easy smile, as the sea breeze brought forth the lovely scent of Cupid and his winged friend. He'd spotted the dove first, preening itself amidst the branches above. Cupid came shortly after, and Rhad had been overjoyed to see a friendly, familiar face.

Well met, my highness. He mused in a warm drawl. He came to bow before Cupid. It is good to see you've been hard at work! I passed the shrine for Aphrodite on my way here. I hope you don't mind that I brought my own bundle of flowers to bless it with. With a humble pause, he smiled.

It is good to see a familiar face. I hope you've faired well in my absence.

It is Rhadamanthus, returned from his journey, but Cupid can smell neither his still-absent daughter nor strangers on the man's coat.

Very well. The patrons guide and provide. If Cupid's hubris has led him into folly, so be it; better a celebration held for those who understand the weight of it, than no celebration at all. Better than Rhadamanthus has returned unharmed. Cupid can only pray Sindri does the same. My highness rumbles from the diplomat's lips first, and Cupid's ears promptly wilt. He brushes off the embarrassment, the weight of such a term, with a warm smile. Please, there is no need for such formalities with me, Rhadamanthus. He was divine, but he was no royalty. That had always been the purview of Freya while she'd been mortal and Cupid wasn't so keen on such a hierarchy. A flutter of a paw as Cupid reached out - the man's voice was too low - and he gently set it upon Rhad's shoulder to guide the man up out of his bow.

Of course you may leave whatever offerings you feel called to! I am sure the Heavenly will appreciate the bouquet. A pause, warm even in its silence. It is good to hear your voice again, Rhadamanthus. You have been missed. Come, we have drink and food for you - you must be weary. The dove flicks his tail to encourage the man to follow, coaxing him toward a well-earned rest and recuperation.