The late afternoon sun spilled across the dairy pastures, painting everything in a soft golden haze. Rongomaiwhenua stood at the gate, her single arm balancing a wooden crate brimming with glass jars of fresh milk and wrapped wedges of cheese. A lamb pressed against her side, bleating impatiently for attention, while a black cat wove around her ankles like a shadow.

She tilted her head, a smirk curling on her lips as her gem-flecked eyes caught the light. “I come bearing tribute,” she announced, voice still carrying that unmistakable resonance of someone who had once been revered as divine. Setting the crate down with care, she leaned closer as if sharing a secret. “Though, between us, the goats insisted the ice cream comes first. They’re rather persuasive when they want to be.”

The lamb nudged her knee, and she crouched with surprising grace, letting it nibble at the edge of her dress without reprimand. “Do you know,” she continued, tone thoughtful yet playful, “when I stood unyielding in stone, I thought power meant never yielding. Now…” She ran her fingers gently across the lamb’s wool, eyes softening. “Now I find myself dirty, mortal, fragile—and I delight in it.”

She rose again, brushing dirt from her dress, laughter bubbling up unbidden. “Enough philosophy for today. I’ve brought plaster for molds, and I insist you help. If humans can immortalize their fragility in art, then so can I. Besides”—her smirk deepened into a grin—“I’d like a little reminder of us, set in stone.”