All visitors to Mount Nynos were unexpected, for Sileon was not a political being that was consulted much on matters and few came to see his simple, rugged little domain that he hardly even worried about. And Metanoia was an even more unexpected guest, because Sileon was not a being to dwell on the past, feel guilt or be more than he was -- an elemental thing that lived very much in his own cycle. Even so, if one expected the volcano to erupt and people to die by the thousands, it wasn't to be, at least not today. 

Someday, of course, Mount Nynos would erupt and destroy, and perhaps there would be survivors to rebuild in the ashes and tell the tale. The temple itself would be eradicated and the Thysian along with it. The people of the Knaeus islands accepted this fate, just as they knew that once, Sileon handed the first humans the gift of fire -- not because he was compassionately caring about their plight, but to see perhaps what they might do with it. In any case, the act was forgotten soon, though Aroesus and Svanus never forgot it, and many things came of that seemingly innocuous but hugely consequential act. It was paradoxical that the least sophisticated of Ventu's get helped start the fire of humanity, not that it was unexpected that Sileon would start a fire. He wasn't aware of the profound consequences of an impulsive act. Svanus suggested it. Aroesus worked with it.

For a moment, it seemed as if Metanoia's visit might go unheeded as the flaming bird that emerged from the mouth of the volcano shot into the sky, though moments later, it was the man that emerged, stepping forward from a spot beyond the other deity's vision. He wore the form of a lithe young man, a dancer's pectorals bare to the world, glistening with a sheen of sweat beneath a loosely-cinched orange robe, rather than the typical flaming wings, though it was impossible for the likes of Sileon to concentrate hard enough on not being himself to quench the flames that danced over him; a flicker across the hair, or along the arm. Here and there. He never would move with impunity among mortals without being noticed and was never made for such games. And he was not made for the intrigues of Krona; a guileless face held a frown of confusion over those sharp, youthful features -- a younger version of Aroesus; darker-haired and made of bronze rather than marble. He was beardless and boyish, whereas Aroesus, at his apex, was calm and calculating, a being of judicial impartiality. Sileon, here, had the same regal bearing, but with far more ferocity and intent focus. Of all his brood, Ventu was stamped most strongly upon his youngest, who was most and least like that fell first of kings.

He strode, barefoot upon the volcanic sand in front of the temple, disregarding the other eyes upon them, though it would probably become a meeting recorded for the future, a thing remarked upon. It was possible the sandy footprints, which burned for the moment, would be scooped into urns as a treasured religious artifact at some future date.

Sileon was unaware of any of that, of the profound nature of striding along Lymaeus as such -- he almost never did it, but then he almost never had a visitor so close to his resting place. There was a taboo among gods about coming here, for he was the terrible weapon that Aroesus called down upon enemies. It meant that he had few social callers of any sort. And this, understood in its way even as he understood and accepted his roll, piqued his curiosity. 

Metanoia wanted something and Sileon was no parser of words, crafter of oratory. There were times where he waxed poetic and musical, artistic and inspired, but it came and went as flames might, flashes and flares, as came his insightful moments of wisdom that could stun the unwary -- but that was not his normal character.

So his question and greeting were simple, but without hostility. His curiousity was naked and direct; "What brings you here, Metanoia?"