[ the campfire gives off the smoke of nature. the scent that creeps in now is the smoke of industry, cut with steel and perhaps oddly, rain-soaked moss. it's subtle, low, but definitely present.

there's a human boy looking utterly unimpressed on one of the log seats, chin in his hand. ]

Man, can't we get like, a god of blueberries or something? It's always "destruction", "conflict", "being a pain in the ass". [ chrono sighs, stretching. despite this being communion, he seems pretty solidly there. ] Is there a quota we gotta meet?