Shimmering leaves rain down upon a village embedded in the roots of a gargantuan oak. A wisp of mist gives away motion as a young woman touches down before the tree, and folds her wings behind her. A velvet train follows her as she gracefully steps up the winding pathways carved up the tree's base.

She can feel the eyes of the peasantry glued to her glistening form. They regard her eagle wings and sharpened claws as holy raiment, to touch and be healed of their troubles. Her guards shew them away, but she allows them to join her at a distance. She is gracious, after all, for what goddess would she be if she was not?

As she reaches a small hollow, she ducks under to find a simple shrine. It was not inlaid in gold like her own or surrounded with bountiful shares of wheat like her father's. Instead, the little cairn of stones was surrounded by bowls of white berries. A symbol of remembrance that they were not the first to be born on Tiruil.