The goddess was quickly discovering just how vast this land truly was.

Mythris. A name that did not echo through the halls of Olympus, nor whisper along the banks of the River Styx. And yet, magic was here. Unnatural phenomena woven into the land itself. Like the blistering cold that seemed intent on killing all that lived. Some deity was displeased, that much was clear. But who ruled this place? And why were gods being taken from other worlds?

There was much to ponder as she wandered, and wander she did.

The cold did not trouble Melinoë. She was well acquainted with the grip of death, the unforgiving emptiness that followed the loss of life. This… snow? It was nothing in comparison. Though, she was learning that her mortal body lacked the resilience of her divine form.

Then came a howl, raw with anger and anguish.

How odd.

She adjusted her path, meandering toward the sound, saffron eyes scanning the endless white for its source. Another cry followed, sharper now, more frustration than fury. And there, amid the snow, stood a figure of many hues, drenched, lashing out at his own face.

Curious.

She continued her slow approach, head canting slightly as she studied him, interest quietly blooming.