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.