A sharp crack echoes through the forest as cedar splits under a careless hoof. A sliver bites skin, barely felt. One drop of blood slips into the grain, and the wood drinks it.

Set on an incense tray and lit, an earthy smell drifts through the old ruins. Unlike the other days, the smoke is threaded with a metallic edge, as if something living had caught fire with the wood.

The deer kneels where they always do, beneath the broken arch, offering up the same quiet, desperate prayer to gods that no longer reside there. Maybe this time something will hear. This time, something does. It stirs. Not from hunger, but interest. Runai lifts its head from the highest stone, following the scent as it thins through the trees. The deer is already gone.

By the time they return, the creature is already waiting. It lets them complete the ritual.

"Again."

The directionless voice startles them. The deer pauses, looks, and finds nothing. The forest offers no answer. They obey. Above them, Runai's mouth pulls wider at the corners, but it does not smile.

"Come earlier next time."
And they do. They return the next day, and the next, each time to a new instruction.
"Bring something" the voice tells them. "Something you would not leave behind."

The steps remain simple, easier to follow than to question. Runai listens as much as it speaks, already knowing what will be brought, what is valued, what can be parted with and what cannot. It prefers to be right. But it is more interesting when it isn't. When the deer surprises it — brings something new, resists, disrupts the pattern — the exchange sharpens. Those are the ones worth keeping around a little longer.

If the attention holds, then things begin to align. Small things start to fall into place. Runai keeps the path smooth, keeps them close, keeps them coming back. It is fond, in its own way, of those who learn to adore it properly.

If the devotion falters, the creature does not hesitate to get it back. It starts small: a voice slipping into the wrong pitch at the wrong moment, fur paling or darkening in uneven patches, antlers reshaped overnight into something impractical: too wide, too heavy, or absurdly flared like listening horns that catch every stray sound. If that fails to hold attention, it becomes bolder. A deer might find itself small and frantic for a time, darting on quick feet, or stuck low to the ground in a body that croaks instead of speaks. Faces shift, too: flattened, lengthened, or replaced outright with something... wrong. None of it lasts. That's the point. The change lifts cleanly once it has done its work — timed with an apology, a correction, a return to proper behavior. It looks like forgiveness.

But in the end, Runai does not descend. It does not grant what was asked for, nor refuse it. It keeps the answer just out of reach, and watches what forms around it: devotion, frustration, obedience, invention.

One day, nothing answers. The deer repeats, refines, corrects, as if precision alone might bring the voice back. But nothing does. Runai has already left. This one is too worn smooth by obedience, too... boring. It finds its amusement elsewhere.

Favorable with:
Omi — has pinpointed her as a new deer in the realm, and have been helping her with forest magic to gain her as a follower.

Acquainted with:
Brent — has been periodically annoying him out of curiosity.