There was nothing left to be said in Krona, and that meant that Sileon turned on a heel, abruptly, and strode from the crumbling throne room of Aroesus as an ever-dissipating group of servants and courtiers, cut off from the power of Aroesus (or Lyrikes, as some were his cronies) languished for lack of sustenance in the form of the deity that patronized them prior. Mortals aged and died, but these immortal servants faded, literally, from corporeal form and into the aether. Bit by bit, they became less flesh-like and more ghostly, particularly to the acute sight of a deity, who could perceive the subtle shifts of such thing.

[i]Krona will be a place of dust, soon,[/i] Sileon thought to himself with characteristic lack of sentimentality -- Aroesus was dead, what did it matter if his palace crumbled, it wouldn't bring him back even if it were preserved. It would only hold memories, and Sileon had about as much use for memories as he did for a throne. Nor did he have any regard for the niceties of Krona, a thing Aroesus enjoyed immensely, or the inhabitants that practiced it, which was why he left quickly.

The same inhabitants that seemed to be withering in the way of servitor spirits and immortal clients cut off from their patronage watched the departing Sileon with a sense of shock mingled with despair – for they were the clients of Aroesus and, in some cases, Lyrikes, who were both dead. Mysia, for her own reasons, witheld herself from them, but seemed to give them a sudden renwed hope for salvation after all when she abruptly and rather bluntly offered the Dancer the throne of the Gods. Then came the abrupt and blunt denial of the throne and even the defiant act of resigning from the Pantheon – others rebelled in deed, but not in word, as the Herald did.

His rapid stride took him through the halls of Krona and to the place where he'd landed in the first place, though the shiver of a summons took him off his stride for a moment in those halls; it jolted him out of his reverie and cast his attention toward the source of it – the summons took everyone differently, but for Sileon it was a warmth in the distance that became warmer as he approached it. 

He dove off the edge of the platform and into lake Miphas itself, and then from the floor of Miphas into the Nasan falls and into the skies of the mortal realm itself, coalescing into his typical flaming bird of prey as he streaked across the sky over Caesilinus. In most days, mortals would note that flame as a portent, but none were noticing tonight, in the throes of the wanton slaughter that went on below. And while the city burned and bled, Sileon noticed it little, once a glance and his own instinct confirmed that it was not a summons from inside the city.

So, it wasn't his temple, then. More like a puny shrine, though it had the soaring spires that characterized the architecture style he'd inspired on Kaeus. It was, as all other temples, in the shadow of Aroesus' own, and Sileon was never one to cultivate a worship base – the mortals came to him of their own accord, for the most part, and were a strange group of people who saw inspiration and portent in the flames, who adopted a philosophical and esoteric bent. Their patron was not himself a philosophical being, and yet the followers were. But it was not the handful of orange-robed men, mostly men, protecting a few others that sought the shelter of his temple from the blood-lusting brood of Mikazliqui who were the source of the summons. And that set him to questioning what -was- the source of the summons?

It was beyond. There was a hill overlooking the city, a place where the summons emanated from, and more was made clear as his flaming bird of a form flared up along the crest of the hill – for Sileon was never subtle in his arrivals, that being his nature – as he discerned what was calling him.

Blood could, indeed, call to blood.

It was a moment later that the young man-form of Sileon, eternally the youngest of Ventu's brood, the one that heir that Ventu wanted, emerged from the flames that his sister had set him, once again a mortal-seeming man of coal-dark hair and lambent eyes in a loose robe of orange regarding his sister-counterpart.

Caesilinus' screams sounded in his ears, even from this distance, as did the gathering of forces within and without it – it was an incredible vantage for some who would enjoy such a spectacle, but the battle and its political implications among the deities did not interest him. Sileon was never one to do more than one thing at once, wholly, and his attention, for the moment, was wholly on Vaela.

“You sent a summons. For what?”