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( When her image appears, she may immediately be recognizable to some. She is young, with healthy colour in her cheeks and a brightness in her eyes where not long ago there had been neither. )

Where I come from, there was an entire epoch in history where great heroes walked the land. One of my forebears, Durran Godsgrief took to wife the daughter of two deities of wind and sea. They rained down such a tempest upon the wedding party that Durran's family and guests all died.

One after the next, he built successfully larger castles to weather their grief. Until finally the seventh, built with the aid of either the Children of the Forest or Bran the Builder finally survived and withstood the gods' rage. He was known as Godsgrief ever after, for having caused them such a bother.

( She is wise enough now not to speak of Lann the Clever instead, as she assumes her secret must ever remain precisely that. Her green eyes hold the camera, as she tilts her head, effecting a thoughtful façade. )

The word 'hero' carries a different sort of weight here than what I am familiar with. Is it simply this world, or others? ( She wonders if hers is merely an anomaly. ) Is the definition of heroism someone with godlike powers in the songs and stories of your realm, or are some ordinary people who manage to accomplish great things?

( Myrcella is, for now, putting on the impression of wide-eyed curiosity to stem her panic at having not only been resurrected, but with the ability to maim others if this file is correct. Her features soften apurpose, and she gives a sweet smile to her audience. )

Thank you.

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Bran the Builder would been been but a boy at that time. He could very well have drawn up the plans for the structure and the Children then have built it according to his design.

( There's a pause, and then she adds quietly: )

I would like that.

A collaborative effort? I suppose... it wouldn't break any lore, that way.

[ A pause, and then: ]

Well, what would you like to know? About our Gods? Or how similar it is to this world?

Not only that, but it renders the tale much more interesting. To imagine how it must have been, the First Men and the Children working side-by-side. before the former retreated from the world and disappeared.

( She loves the stories. Which then should render it no surprise at all when she says: )

About your gods, please.

Good choice.

[ And not just because he's a god himself. Woden is...learned on the matter. Moreso than the others of his Pantheon, save for Cassandra. ]

We are numerous and mysterious. We emerge once a century and inspire people for an entire two years before our flames are snuffed out and we're lost to the world for the rest of the century. We're... We have powers, but our true power lies in our ability to create, and inspire.

We're artists, mostly. Even the most violent among us.

( Ah. Understanding dawns swiftly upon Myrcella, and she is most thankful for this conversation being spoken only. Her expression truly would betray her amazement.

And curiosity. )

As you describe it, it sounds like a beautiful existence. What do you do to pass the remaining ninety-eight years?

Is humanity a joy or something else, as you see us?

( That's something she's wondered, and moreso now that she's died and returned to life. What do the gods make of the follies of men?

And the greatness of which she know many of them are capable? )

Oh, we're dead. In the ether, or whatever you want to call it. [ Because gods can die. Sure. ]

Humanity adores us. They fuel our lifestyles, they pay for our drugs, they participate in our orgies and give us the power we have, so they're... we enjoy them.

[ In more ways than one, you know. No big. There's a pause. ] I don't think anyone -- even the experts -- would call our existences beautiful. [ A Pause, and then derisively: ] Well, any worth their salt.

( Oh. She is thankful that he can't see her, because she's just winced and is fairly certain her face has gone white as a sheet. And still, her voice betrays her, quavering in a way that infers understanding and empathy when she speaks again. )

I see. Are you alone during that time, then? Or at least able to keep one-another company?

That's certainly better than the alternative. I'm glad.

( Neatly skirting the topics of drugs and orgies for now, thank-you! ) What would you call it?

Of course not. We die, and there's nothing. [ A pause. ] At least as far as we know. Consider it a long rebirth.

A really long reincarnation.

[ There's a pause then, and his voice sounds hollow. Even moreso than it did before. It's either detatchment or anger, and Woden works very hard to keep any anger from his voice. ]

I would say it's more like an explosion. Violent, fierce, fast, and then snuffed out, leaving only the results in our wake, and very little remains the same.

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