A dove's wings flutter and rustle as she flits between the tree's branches, then comes to rest above the young woman with a low warble low in her throat. The wings observe the newcomer to the isle with a beady, unusually keen dark eye, shining with morning light in the obsidian gleam. Seemingly satisfied by what she observes, the dove smooths her feathers and settles deeper into the plush cushion of her own feathering, chiming on the crisp morning air a croon.

Cupid follows the sounds of the wings with one idly attentive ear and wandering attention. He puzzles over the changes in Bragi, this unusual brashness within his daughter that is so refreshing yet unnerving. He worries over Sindri, the stresses that her new litter will put on her blossoming relationship and the challenges she will face with her own pups, and his place in that changing dynamic. He mulls over festivals, goddesses whose absence and patronage alike strum the most meloncholic of his heartstrings, and then -

The scent of crisp linen, soothing chamomile, one of the newcomers to the isle brought by his daughter. This one, unique among the others. Cupid strides toward the scent with a sway of his tail, listening to the summoning call the wings offers. She, too, thinks introductions are in order.

Good morning. The cherub hums from within the trees, careful not to startle the young woman.