Ah, you spoil me, offers the deep voice of the man by the dove's side. Cupid huffs out a chuckle. Oh, hardly.

His tail sways, appreciative of the praise and acknowledgement of his work. There is roasted boar, slices of venison, delicacies in as many variations as Cupid could will into existence, that he leads Rhadamanthus to. A flourish of his paw, a tilt of his head with eyes that settle on an invisible middle distance and remain there. Thank you. Please, help yourself.

The polite dance of their back-and-forth small talk comes to a gentle halt as Rhad turns the conversation to the....quiet island.

Cupid thinks of Apollo's bizarre return and his children's absence, the shores of the Skjoldrheim washing up only driftwood rather than washing away the footfalls of a thousand boisterous guests. A golden age faded, but a new dawn crests the horizon, Cupid thinks. Prays. Dares to hope.

I think I should be grateful for the peace and quiet, but I mostly just worry. Cupid heaves a puff of air, expelling his frustration, his lingering inaction. The island threatens to feel like an exile rather than a refuge, some days. He can't blame his children for spreading their wings beyond its borders. Only fret over whether they'll make the migration home.

Skjoldrheim itself is doing alright, I think. We may be spread more thin than usual, but I prefer to think of it as a wide-cast net to pull in those who need us. He lifts his chin, paints on a smirk. You can tell me if I'm quite delusional, of course.