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The gentle rise and fall of the femme's voice carried over the desolate plains of the Veins. Her faith was strong, her hope stronger, and as she came to a halt before the shrine that had once belonged to the God of the Sun, one could almost see her desperate desire. There was something achingly beautiful about her poem. About to appear in a large, sudden, flaming ball, the God of the Sun took pause, mulling over her words. Instead, a small, flickering flame appeared among the ashes, growing slowly until his form could be seen engulfed inside. As he stepped out from the fire, the flames sank behind him, though they did not die. They awaited his return, his ascension back into his home in the sky.
The winter sun shimmered on his golden pelt, drawing a glare even in the coldest part of winter. A mortal would be covered in a thick, shaggy winter coat meant to keep in warmth and keep out wind; but the God of the Sun had no need for such silly things. He did not get cold. He did not suffer as the mortals did. His wings, stretched out to the side, flickered softly with a lingering flame, snuffed out as he folded them against his sides. Golden eyes slipped over the mortal before him, considering her for a moment. "Circuta," he rumbled, his tone unfathomable. "You have returned, with the trinket I asked of you in tow, I trust." It was a veiled threat, for he was not one to enjoy wasted time. "Tell me - how did you come across my amulet? From whom did you take it?"
"blah blah blah."
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[O] we are ready — we are young,
