Legend of Ransera

The final stretch leading up to the highest tier of the island was a steeply inclining bridge of wooden plank and thick-hewn rope, which swayed against the winds that swept off the ocean. Àkriel leaned his weight forward and gripped the guide ropes as he trudged upward. He was obviously familiar with the bridge, but that didn't make him incautious. The locals lacked Raithen's wings to save them if they slipped and the descent would have been brutal.

Once they were across, Àkriel would turn back to Raithen with an amused smirk.

"My people did not choose me, but I suppose they do abide me." The Archigós noted, "Please. This way." He gestured to the towering structure that was, perhaps, the most prominent piece of architecture on the isle and led the way to the broad double doors leading inside.

They would enter a large, open hall that might have served many purposes and very likely did. For the moment, tables were being set up and fruit was being sliced off to once side, though it did not appear that some lavish feast was being prepared- Merely modest refreshment of fruits, vegetables and their respective juices all surpassingly fresh. One of the locals was humming a lilting melody as they used their webbed hands to toss a salad of kelp with a bright, orange dressing of some kind.

Chairs were still being set up at the round table to which the Archigós gestured for them to sit.

"What wisdom we have we gladly share, but ours are simple ways. No mighty mages reside here, nor harbour we any ancient artefacts... Nothing of import to your world, at least. Only heirlooms of our own tribe." Once they were seated, a wide-eyed child with stringy braids of aquamarine hair rushed up to them with a tray of sliced melon as if they were on a mission of paramount import with life-or-death stakes. They offered the tray up toward Raithen, gaping with some blend of abject terror and ardent hope.

"Ευχαριστώ. Μπορείτε να αφήσετε την πιατέλα." Àkriel sang tenderly. The child nodded and handed the entire tray to Raithen, before darting off to the preparation tables.

"Now, pardon me if you find my impatience impertinent, but if you are a messenger... what is the message?" A spark of his prior nervousness revealed itself in the glint of the chieftain's eye.

At the question of Ákriel’s right to lead, he nodded.

“This is the way amongst the Vrónti, but different tribes keep different ways. I am the oldest child of the previous Archigós. When she no longer wished to lead, she devoted her focus to her reef gardens. Some of the forthcoming spread includes her harvest.”

If there was any custom being broken by Raithen’s indulgence, none of the locals made mention of it and no one seemed particularly perturbed. Some of those preparing the plates were unabashedly plucking pieces as they cut. Perhaps a tariff for their efforts, or perhaps they were simply following their whims.

Others who’d been behind them on the trip up were bringing baskets of fish and shellfish to deliver to the preparation tables. The lyrical exchanges of their native tongue, augmented as it was by gestures, and was a chaotic chorus with equally chaotic choreography.

Ákriel seemed taken aback at the answer to his question.

“Oh, I see…” He paused for a moment to process this news. He was more confused than anything. He wasn’t sure what they could possibly offer to satisfy a god. Their closed ecosystem was bountiful enough to date the locals, but the modest feast they offered this honoured guest was frugal by design. Excess would quickly put a strain on their limited resources, and gods were wont to be hungry creatures. Ákriel wasn’t even witting to the fact that the god in question counted Hunger amongst his domains. That would have only turned his nervousness to dread.

“How ought we to prepare for such a visit? I would know more of your Divine Master, that I might prepare my people to properly receive him.”

Ákriel seemed amused by Raithen’s suppositions. Enough so that he stifled a chuckle, though he did seem a bit embarrassed and quickly cleared his throat and flattened out his smirk.

“When it comes to matters of leadership, I must be sly indeed to glean guidance from my Foréas.” He paused, seeming to recall belatedly that this was not a Vallenor word but a term unique to Nepthal. “This would be, to you, like a mother. She is very committed to her retirement, you see. She sets firm boundaries and, apart from the most extreme circumstances, is content to let me make my own mistakes. ‘Try again, fail again, fail better.’” Is her motto.

“I doubt you will meet her today unless you seek her out below. She does not fancy large social situations or spontaneity. She says she’s had enough of both for one lifetime.” At this Ákriel rolled his eyes, while reaching for a slice of melon with long, slender fingers. He took a relishing bite, rolling his eyes for an entirely different reason and sighed with satisfaction.

“You are interested in our language? You may be at the advantage for your fluency in Vallenor. The vocabulary and grammar are derived from the old tongue of Mother Sol’Valen. Our language, Nepthal, is more easily articulated underwater. When our ancestors took to the ocean’s embrace we needed to adjust, or so the lorekeepers tell us.” The last of the platters seemed to be en route to the tables now, and even some of the most avid curiosity-seekers were suddenly more interested in filling their bellies than Raithen, though the winged angel remained a close second.

“Whenever you are ready, please speak. I shall quiet them down and translate.”

The chieftain would not realise that he'd misspoken. It was not that Nepthal was more easy to articulate underwater than it was on land. It was that it was more easy to articulate underwater than most languages spoken on the surface. Much nuance had been lost when his ancestors attempted to speak Vallenor beneath the waves, and adjustments had needed to be made. Thus did the language of Nepthal evolve.

"You are the guest." Ákriel protested, "When you are ready to speak, I am ready to serve." He lowered his head deferentially and gestured for Raithen to proceed at his own pace. With as much attention as Raithen was already drawing from the locals, even that vague sweep of the arm was enough to hush the surrounding onlookers. They were eager to know more of their unusual guest and at even this slight sign, that anticipation transitioned quickly to expectation and many eyes that had regarded him in their periphery turned to stare at him outright.

While Raithen, as an Avialæ in a largely homogenous culture, was not unaccustomed to stares, their gazes were peregrine. Not like those of people in his aforementioned largely homogenous culture. Their anticipation was almost innocent. Their context completely alien. Soon Raithen would be stricken with the sense that the locals were not the only ones watching. That the true test of his mettle, his devotion, his worthiness was truly at hand.

"Thou, Archangelus Meus, shall prepare My way." He of the Sceptre had bade and, though Raithen had not yet prayed for Him to come and receive the supplication of His new flock, there would be a sense that he was not inattentive to this progress. Perhaps what had been framed as Aværys' whim was a more meaningful edict, or perhaps He expected His whims to be treated with the same regard as His commandments. Whatever the case, His glow seemed to highlight the edges of Raithen's view as he looked out over his huddled audience.

Ákriel rose and signalled for his people to gather in view of their guest. Many seated themselves upon the wood planks of the floor, others (mostly elders) occupied mismatched chairs or stools constructed of driftwood by various artisans over the span many years. As Raithen spoke, Ákriel would impart his message in the exotic, lilting melody of his voice as his lithe body contributed to the telling.

As Raithen felt the rapture of his true faith, he would see a growing awe in the eyes that peered his way. The eyes of the Avialæ took on an empyreal, golden glow and the very air around him seemed to warp in the light cast forth from his very flesh. Though Raithen was no Mesmer and was not in direct control of the affect he was emitting, there was something euphoric about the sensation of inspiring awe in these simple, island folk. Their attention nourished a part of him… their interest sated the hunger of some piece of his soul that had never been fed.

When he completed his oratory, Ákriel turned to him, eyes welling with the overwhelming feelings stirred, but his expression was one of confusion.

“I… do not understand what we have done to curry attention from such a one. We are not an ambitious people… What mild hungers we have are sated by the bounty of the sea… we wield little in the way of power. Even the tribes of our sister islands seem more suited to the purposes of your Lord.” He lowered his eyes,

“I would not shirk the honour of serving a god…” There was fear in his voice that suggested he was more disinclined to offend one than keen to submit. Whatever his reasons, he would surely oblige. This much was clear as a desert day

“I am glad you have come in advance of the mighty one. Will you help us prepare to receive him appropriately?”