There aren't many outside viewers for a bit. The crater finds itself next to a river of sulfurous sand, and there aren't any settlements too close by.

Still, after a few minutes, a head pokes past the lip of her crater. The head happens to be transparent and blueish, too, but it's human.

She continues her work carefully reconstructing her manifestation's spine, but has more than enough attention to notice this onlooker. How... strange. Human, but distinctly not.

"Hello," she calls, without use of the broken body's mouth. Her voice echoes in multiple languages, known and unknown, but still nonetheless perfectly intelligible.

The head eeps and hides away from the lip of the crater.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you. I'm certainly not going to hurt you."

Well, so long as the not-quite-human doesn't stand on the bits of her that are on fire. She studiously tries to be slightly less on fire.

After a couple of minutes the head emerges again.

It remains distinctly transparent.

Oh, good! Progress, on both the 'making friends' front and the 'being less on fire' front.

"I'm Tisvetaia, goddess of preservation. Might I know your name?"

"My name is Buuran," the person says, and his voice... echoes, like several versions of itself at different pitches and volumes combining into a single thing, and it seems to come less from his mouth and more from his self. It's an odd sound, not too unlike the way Tisvetaia's own voice does it, although it's all in a single language. "The gods left."

"I see. Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, and I apologize for having made a mess upon my landing, but I didn't expect to arrive here at all. Where am I?"

"Nowhere," he says, shaking his head. "This is the Desolation. Nothing but death and death's minions here." He hops down into the crater and slides towards where she is, oddly light on his feet. His clothes are similarly bluish and transparent.

"'Death's minions'?" she clarifies, thoughtfully.

She peers at him, as much as a smoking pile of volcanic rock and magma can peer at him. This being is a mortal, but not like the ones she's used to. Made of will and self and... soul. Ah. That is an interesting word to have learned.

He might be mortal, but he's much less careful with what he's doing than a normal mortal would be. He tries not to too blatantly step on fiery rock and magma, but when he brushes it it doesn't seem to bother or harm him. "Palawa Joko's Awakened," he explains unhelpfully. "Especially those that feast on ghosts. We must be quite the thorn on his side, for him to have specifically created counter-measures for us." Buuran is definitely smug about that.

"Do you need help?"

Even if it doesn't bother or harm him, she still tries to quiet the heat around her broken and oozing form. It just seems polite, really.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that? You look... melted."

"The landing was not a graceful one," she says, feeling rather like the goddess of understatement, "But the results of it are an inconvenience, not debilitating. Harming me by harming this body is like trying to harm the ocean by taking a bucket to it. Theoretically correct if one kept at it for a while, but in practice quite inefficient."

He can see her body slowly knitting itself together, skin giving way to volcanic rock and then to glowing lava, sewing broken parts together and straightening itself out.

"Are you the kind of god that we should be preparing to harm?" he asks, raising a wry eyebrow.

"I doubt it, but I admit I don't know your inclinations very well."

"Don't try to eat the world and we're fine," he shrugs. "We already have the dragons trying to do that, it would be too much of a headache to get a god on it."

"I have no plans to devour the world, and do not expect that to change. I'm rather offended that anything is trying it, actually."

"Oh, so you're one of the good kind of gods, nice." He squints at her reforming body. "I thought that looking at gods was meant to blind you. I admit I never met them, but that's what the stories say."

"This world is very different from my own. It sounds likely that your wayward gods are similarly different. I could potentially blind someone, but it would be by conscious action, and would be rather rude."

"Good, we don't need them anyway," he says, shrugging again. "So, do you need help? Dunkoro was a monk when he was alive, he might know a spell or two that could help you... although maybe he might have to use elementalist spells for that, what with all the fire."

"My acolyte once described me as 'opinionated landscape that sometimes looks human,'" she says, sounding somewhat fond. "It's possible that one of the spells available could help with this body's repairs, but I am fundamentally very different from things you might have encountered in this world. I wouldn't want you or him to risk yourselves on my behalf for such a slim chance of actually helping me. Thank you for the offer, though."