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Calmly, Serihle sits on her throne, hastily woven together of fallen trees and sturdy rocks, as two children fan her with flimsy fans of tied-together leaves and feathers. Their singular job is to try and keep her cool in the hottest days of the year, and they manage this without complaint, their eyes cast to the ground, because even though they would much rather be playing in the nearby stream, keeping her happy beats the alternative.

Serihle does not approve of her current throne - a fact of which the villagers are well aware. The assure her with the same downcast eyes as the children that they will make her a more appropriate throne as soon as they can gather the proper materials.

"We would have had it prepared if only we knew you were coming," the village elder explains. This is enough to appease her for the time, though she does not find her throne of sticks and stones to be entirely comfortable. But Serihle is patient. After all, she was not expecting to find a society that was inclined to worship her, and even this pitiful throne exceeds those low expectations from before.

What luck, she thinks, that these fools happen to worship an avian goddess.

Now, instead of foraging for food in the jungles of this vastly unknown land, she is able to sit back and preen her feathers. Instead of avoiding the local wildlife, she has people waiting on her hand and foot, catering to her every need with the plan that she might bring them good fortune one day.

Besides, these fools seem happy to have a goddess in their midst. Who is she to tell them otherwise? As far as Serihle is concerned, she is doing these simple people a favor.

However, as the children continue to fan her, Serihle does not miss the image of one man approaching her. She can immediately tell he's different from the others. He does not carry any offerings for her, and he does not slowly crouch to the ground and avert his gaze like all of the others seem to. She notes with little interest that he has a muscular build - sturdy arms and legs. The look of a warrior, if only the rest of his people did not seem to be so keen on the silly idea of "peace."

It does not take him long to meet her, and he stands in front of her, his fists clenched to his side as he stares her straight in the eyes. He does not wait for her permission to speak.

"You are a fraud," he states. "You are no goddess. No goddess truly worthy of worship would waste her time on her throne, demanding that anything for the good of her people be put to a halt for her own needs."

Serihle doesn't answer this at first, though her brows raise slightly as she contemplates how to deal with him. Finally, the faintest hint of a smile crosses her lips, and she uncrosses her legs, just in case the need for her to stand arises. "Why should a goddess act for the good of her people?" is the only question she poses to him. He has no answer.

The man then tries a new technique to prove her wrong. "Then prove to us your power!" he demands, stomping his foot into the ground for emphasis. Serihle begins to say no, but she can't help but notice that other villagers are beginning to gather around and watch the scene playing out before them. She sniffs slightly and stands, flexing her hands and causing her gold-plated talons to clink.

"If that's what you wish," she states calmly.

Those who see the result of Serihle's demonstration agree that she could be nothing but a god. The feathers adorning her clothing flash in brilliant colors, and as the sun catches on her talons, it gives the impression that she's almost glowing with energy. Her movements are deadly and swift, and the man can only watch as she snatches his life away in a few lethal swipes of her claws. He falls to the ground, his body now decorated in decorative brush strokes of blood red.

Serihle turns back to her subjects, a small, almost imperceptible smile stretched across her face. "Does anybody else wish to question me?" she asks, her tone politely calm, as though simply asking the time. The on looking villagers do not answer - not even with a no - and they drop their gazes back to the ground where they belong.

With her legitimacy once again established, Serihle returns to her throne of sticks and stone, and she carefully begins to work on the arduous task of getting the blood off of her person.

The children continue to fan.

((Serihle belongs to o ribbun - this was written upon request for free.))