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Realistic or Modern | 𝙽𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝙲𝚒𝚝𝚢 | A Noir God RP

OOC
Here

TheFool

Member





Welcome
To
Night City



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1 BC
( Again )






 
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Cyrus was alive for roughly 10949 days.

Dying right before the thirtieth celebration of birth. As an adult, he woke up everyday and did the same things. The same routine. He washed himself ( when he could ) and he ate ( when he had food to eat ) and he went to work in the fields. Tending to his crops and feeding the chickens who had somehow survived the night. He never wed and thus he never fathered any children, which was something that always brought him an inch of sadness. On a chilly day in the early spring - he woke. He left his hut, barefoot. He let the crops go without their water and he let the poultry go without their feed. He wandered up a rocky winding hill, that of which led to a cliff. The cliff. Overlooking The Aegean Sea. The waves had always calmed him. The waves had always brought him a sort of joy. Which is why, after roughly 10949 days, he plunged into them.

You would think that the impact killed him.
But it didn’t,
It only brought forth his rebirth.





Night City Intro





The sun was gently rising upon Night City.
Its light meant an end to the darkness, not just literally. Bars would finally lock their doors and clubs would boot out their remaining patrons. The last lines of white powder were gracefully sniffed up one nostril after the other. The dancers put their clothes back on - avoiding their own reflections at every mirror they had to strut past. Morning meant the city’s sweet death. The lit up skyscrapers and electrifying neon would fall to slumber once more. Morning, of course, meant The Mourning -
Buses upon buses of new arrivals. New mourners. What was it they were mourning? Their own lives. For once you became a resident of Night City, you’d never live anywhere else. You never could.

An orange bus, its colour matching that of the sunrise, pulled up alongside the entrance to Icarus Beach. Parking itself on light grey pavement. Its doors opened, letting loose a flood of newly deceased. A mix of people wearing fine dyed cloth and stained white rags got off. They were dazed. Confused. They had no idea what was currently happening to them.
It always took a while for them to grasp that idea.
The idea.

A peppy young girl was awaiting them. She stood, eagerly, on the pavement with a clipboard in her manicured grasp. “Hey gang!” She said, chirpy. She was always chirpy. She had to be. “If y'all could form a nice and orderly line just against the bus.”
Several of the deceased scratched their heads. Some coughed. Some continued to look like frightened rodents, fearful of an impending doom. They had nothing to be scared of though. Their impending doom had already taken place. This was the aftermath.
Beside the young girl was a gigantic man with a singular eye sunken into the middle of his face. “They don’t know what buses are yet, Jan.”
“Shoot.” She blinked. “If y’all could line up against the big… orange… yeah.” They all started to fall in line. “There ya go.” Jan turned back to her partner,
“Jesus Christ, I can’t wait until it’s the 1900s.”
He scoffed, “You and me both.”
With the deceased now lined up against the bus that brought them here - Jan introduced herself properly. This was her one hundred and something group that she was tasked to guide. So she was still a rookie. “My name’s Jan and I will be your guide this morning.”
The deceased stood, aimlessly. One of them began to cry.
“Um… y’all are probably wondering what it is that is… going on.” She swallowed. “Well, all will be revealed in due time. I assure you. Just know, for now, that you are all… well… you are all dead. You’ve died. Goodbye Earth. See ya never, ha.”
She smiled brightly.
Several more mourners began to weep. Most others stood shocked and slack-jawed. The usual. As she stood there, another bus pulled up behind the orange one. This one was black, and empty. “My colleague here, Ian, will take the following group of people and be their guide.” Jan continued, following her words by reading a list of names off of her clipboard.
“This way, people.” Ian boomed. Gesturing the names called towards the black bus. That one would bring them to Argonaut Beach… and then they’d ferry to Hades. Bless their souls. Jan turned to the remaining mourners, “The rest of you are with me! We’ll be touring the entire city before dropping you off at your new residences in Elysia. Except for…”
She eyed the clipboard again. She could feel the sun high in the sky now. Its heat sweltering her. Icarus Beach was still empty however. It would remain so until the afternoon, where families would come for some relaxation on the sand or a dip in the ever-ocean. “Three of you.”
She looked up.
Spotting them.
“Xiaoai, Danika and… Cyrus?”
A beautiful Chinese woman dressed in an expensive dress. A far less beautiful… woman (?) dressed in animal hides. And a handsome man in commoner’s rags, his skin softly kissed by sun tan. “We’ll be making quick stops for you three.”
Jan continued to smile.
“Now onto the bus y’all, come come.”

They all piled back onto the bus, with Jan following them this time.
She tapped the driver - a thin hooded figure - on his shoulder once all the deceased were seated. She then picked up a small silver microphone that connected to the bus’s dashboard. “And away we go!”
The hooded driver turned the key in its ignition.
Starting the vehicle.
Jan, turning away from the microphone for a split second, faced the driver. “The Golden Apple first, the girls are Aphrodite’s.”
“And… the… boy?” The driver whispered thinly.
“The boy…”
Jan looked back at her clipboard, scanning the writing. When she found where he was supposed to go she was slightly taken aback. She looked back up. Her gaze gandering on him as he sat, confused, in his seat by the window. “He’s Hera’s.”











It is often said,
Mostly by The Elysians, that, some mornings, Mount Olympus rose higher than the sun itself. The building was thick and towering. Shaped in such a shape that indeed screamed ‘mountain’. Except inside Mount Olympus wasn’t rock and stone and cave systems. Its interior was a five-star resort. Casinos, restaurants, and apartments that each had the most magnificent view of the urban metropolis that surrounded them. And at the top? On Olympus’ peak? The most expensive penthouse suite to ever be.
Ever.
A three story apartment, decorated in lavish. Fit for royalty. Fit for Gods. And it was. For whoever lived within this penthouse owned it. All of it. They owned Mount Olympus. And whoever wielded ownership over Olympus thus wielded the same over all of Night City.
Olympus was it.
The pinnacle of power.
So why didn’t Hera feel all that powerful?

She lay in bed, her arm hanging out its side. Her bed. No longer theirs. It had been a week since he’d left her. Since he’d left this place entirely. The only way someone could. She was tangled under lush covers and pillowy blankets, still wearing the little red slip dress that she’d worn last night. Her head pounded. That would be the copious amount of vodka, no doubt. She smelled of sweat and cigarettes with the added subtle fragrance of grief. Something pecked at her fingers. “Leave me be, Thebes.”
She moaned.
Her eyes still tightly shut. The peacock nabbed with his beak once more. An eye opened, but she was soon blinded by sunlight coming through a crack in the curtains she failed to close all the way. On this day, the sun and Olympus were most certainly evenly matched.
Slowly,
Hera sat up. Yawning. Stretching. Scratching an itch that plagued her shoulder. She rubbed her eyes too, before standing up. Her first action was shooing the pet away, “Go eat, Thebes!” She shambled over towards her mirror vanity, deciding only now to wipe last night’s makeup off of her.
The peacock followed.

“EAT! Thebes! EAT!”

She picked up a comb and threw it at him. The bird half-flew across and out of the bedroom. Her stomach growled at her as she stared at her reflection. She had to eat as well. She hadn’t eaten in… days. Sure, she didn’t need to eat. But her stomach would still hiss.
She shook her head and picked up a white wipe. She began dragging it down her cheek, removing the dried in pinkness.
As she did, she put her arm out and flicked her middle finger in the direction of a small black boombox. It switched on. Static for a few moments before DJ Bragi’s voice appeared. As cool and as calm as ever. She listened to him talk about there being “another sunny afternoon in Night City”.
That made her roll her eyes.
But she continued to listen, hoping he’d quit discussing the weather and start playing more music. She stared at herself. She stopped wiping her cheek and stared. Another wrinkle. One that wasn’t there the other day. Surely it wasn’t?
She focused on the crease. The sign of age. And it slowly disappeared from her reflection in the mirror. It’d be back soon though. If she didn’t get her remedy in time. “And now back to the hits-”
Bragi’s voice soothed her.
The knock coming from the front door downstairs did not.
“Here’s Blue Monday.”
Hera slammed the wipe down onto the vanity’s shelf and grabbed a robe to wear off one of her coating racks.

She quickly strutted down the stairwell, made entirely of the whitest marble. It led into a large foyer/living space. The airy room was decorated colourfully - but sleekly. A fire pit was in its middle. Said pit was surrounded by two black leather couches - one with a knit blanket of peacock feathers over its cushion. The walls were Andy Warhol, his art clinging to them.
Hera stopped at the final step, one hand gripping the bannister. She would never allow herself to open the door. Opening doors were for the peasantry. “Come in.”
She said,
Gracefully.
The large door opened slowly. Its opener revealing themselves to be a petite blonde woman. “Oh, it’s you…” Hera grumbled with another roll of her eyes.
“You don’t have to knock you know? You can simply… let yourself in. The noise is not what I need at this moment of time.”
The woman slid into the apartment and slammed the door shut behind her. The noise echoing out the faint music coming from the boombox in the bedroom.
“Better?” She asked.
Hera grimaced, “What do you want, Eris?”
“Can a lady simply not come and visit her dear grieving mother?” The blonde woman said, almost mockingly. Eris’s heels clicked against the tiled floor as she made herself at home, walking towards a small mahogany bar that was adjacent to doors leading out to the penthouse’s balcony patio. Hera stepped off the last step of the stairs, “A lady can, Eris. But you’re not that lady. You never have been that lady.”
At the bar,
Eris took out two small glasses and poured a free-handed shot of bourbon into both. “Now, now mother. Don’t be dreadful. I’ve just poured you a drink.” She smiled through bright red lipstick.
Hera scoffed.
Before slowly approaching the bar, and her daughter.
Eris raised an eyebrow,
“You look…”
“Do not start with me, girl. It’s been… a week.”
“That it has.”
Eris dropped her smile.
Hera picked up one of the glasses and clinked it against Eris’ before knocking the sourness back. It was just what she needed to start off the day. She put the glass back down onto the bar. Eris giggled, “Another?”
“Another.”
Hera clung to her robe, making sure she had wrapped it tight enough. “Are you going tonight?” The aging woman asked as she spied Thebes hopping down the marble steps. Eris handed her the refilled glass, that of which Hera only sipped this time.
“That’s actually why I’m here. I wanted to ask you what you thought of this whole… ordeal.”
Eris eyed her mother,
Drinking the bourbon.
“Not much to think about, Eris. It’s your uncle. He’s never had a knack for tact. Not like your father.” Hera continued to sip.
“That may be true but… holding such a festivity the same week as your brother’s murder? Not even I would have the heart to do something as such.”
“And you’ve ruined many a wedding.”
Eris threw her head back and laughed,
“I’ll drink to that, mother.”
Hera cracked a thin smile. Her first smile since Zeus’ death, surely? “Look.” She sipped. “Let Poseidon do what he wants to do. Let him hold any party. Let him try and enforce any rule. At the end of the day - and the day does end - he has no power here. He was second rate to his brother while your father was alive… and he will continue to be second rate to him dead.”
“Here, here.”
Eris raised her glass.
Hera let out a small sigh,
“So... will you be attending tonight?”

Eris smiled widely with blood coloured lips. “You think I’d pass any invitation thrown my way?”
“Of course not.”
“Well, there be it your answer.”

Another knock came.
Again from the front door. “Ugh, come in.” Hera finished her second glass of bourbon and then placed it down on the bar. She turned towards the door and wiped her lips of drink with the sleeve of her robe. Thebes approached her and she used her other hand to pet his head. The door opened -
Revealing two brutish looking men behind it.
“Your Elysian, madam.”
One of them spoke monotonously.
“Her what?” Eris asked, looking at her mother.
“The one you requested last night, madam.” The other brute said.
“What?”
Eris repeated, the stare she gave her mother was venomous. Hera shot at glance at her, her sea-green eyes telling Eris to mind her business. “Bring him in and leave us.”
“Yes, madam.”
They both said in unison.
“Thank you Kosmos. Thank you Kleon.” Hera mumbled, stone faced. They left the room and pushed him in before shutting the door. The man - The Elysian - stood still, confused. Very confused. He was after all fresh off the bus. Still in his Mourning.
Hera had made sure last night that he would be.

“Welcome to Night City, Cyrus.”
Hera said.
Her words were lyrical and sweet.

“What… What is this place? I… where is… No one will -” He began stuttering. Tripping over his thoughts. Unable to comprehend his demise. Something each and every Elysian went through at first in one way. She hurried over to him, Thebes following in his hops, and placed her hand gently on the small of his back. Caressing it like one would caress an animal. That was what he was after all. Another animal. Another dead animal added to The Elysian Fields.
“Hush, my sweet. You will go upstairs now. The first door you see… that will be your room for now. Sleep. I will wake you when we are ready to leave.”
Cyrus looked at her with tears in his eyes.
And fear.
Wet fright.
He nodded his head and did as told, however. Slowly - corpse like - shuffling up the marble steps. Making his way to his richly furnished holding cell.
Hera watched him as he made the climb.
Smiling thinly.

Eris made a coughing noise, hoping to catch her mother’s attention.

“Yes, Eris?”
Hera looked back at her daughter. The young blonde was not happy, though she rarely was. “What is going on? Who is… him?” Fumbling over words.
Hera continued her smirk,
“I cannot show up to Poseidon’s without a date now, can I?”
“A date?”
“A date, Bellona.”
Eris scoffed, “Father would be overjoyed for you.”
“Your father is dead -”
“He is.”
“- and I am still living, Bellona. I am still here. Alive. Ruling. This is my city, still. Let me enjoy myself for but a rhyme within this sonnet of grief. Let me have my fun, so it might heal my heart. If I want to parade around with a handsome Elysian… I will parade around with one.”
“Do not call me Bellona.”
“I also will call my own daughter whatever I want to call her.” Hera’s face was now like stone. Like marble. “Do you understand? For once in your existence… do you understand?”
Eris stood.
Still.
Her hand tightly clenched around the empty glass. Her grip tightening and tightening and tightening until it smashed within that grip. Its shatter was ear-piercingly loud. As was the tense silence right afterward. The two women staring one another down.
“Does your penchant for drama and chaos now include destroying my glassware?”
Hera asked,
“Do you want to smash some plates next, Bellona?”
Eris roughly brushed her hand against her bright washed denim jacket, ridding her palm of the little bits of glass. “Keep your fine china, mother. It might be all you have after tonight’s gala.” She was now in flight, moving swiftly past the bar and past her mother and past the firepit. The young blonde was heading towards the door. “I hope you enjoy your fucking as much as my father enjoyed his.”

Eris called back as she left,


“See you at Poseidon’s.”


She opened the door and then slid behind it. It shut with another slam. The noise ringed around the room - around the foyer of the penthouse. Hera stared at the door for what seemed like the longest amount of time, before she found herself behind the bar.
She poured another bourbon and drank. Her stare dancing from the front door to the stairs that led up to her Elysian.
She laughed to herself. Rolling her eyes at her daughter’s hysterics. She took a sip in-between chuckles. But her heart began to feel smothered. Her stomach pained her, still. And the chuckles quickly turned to quiet sobs that not even the finest bourbon could facilitate.

She missed him so much.




 
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People are fickle things. Unpredictable at best, chaotic and violent at worst. You can't really trust anyone, can you? Everyone's got an angle or a price. Anyone who says they don't, well, that's when the price is steepest.

Good thing God's have expensive taste, huh?

On any other day, in any other year, a God could've walked down any street as just that, a God. Unchallenged. Untouchable. Unending. Because that's what the Gods were right? Unending. They'd shaped the begining, they'd be there to shape the end. not like the Elysians who came and went like rainy days. But when Zeus, almighty-fucking-Zeus, turns up dead, common people begin to think they deserve better than just a common lifestyle. If Zeus could die, anyone could. Any God.

"You know, they say you're practically the savior of humanity, yanno?" Some ugly thug with a crooked nose said as he absent mindedly loaded bullets into a outdated revolver. "So what gives, eh? You give us meat. You give us fire. Mold us from earth and stone. Then you just sit up there with all your power and let the little guy suffer? That's kind of fucked up, don't yeh think?"

The sun would be up soon, but it was still too dark to see the thugs eyes. There was just enough light to see his teeth, looking like the man had tried to make-out with a cinder block. They jutted this way and that, in odd directions you wouldn't normally think possible. Yet there he was, proving you wrong. The toothy smile faded quickly when he didn't get a response. Bullies taunt to get a response. They don't want your money, they want your respect. And if they can't have your respect, they want you afraid.

The man's hand twisted, digging the barrel of his rusting pistol into the soft spot of the temple. "It's rude not to respond when peoples is talking to you." He grumbled, stooping to try and look his prey in the eyes. "You gods thing you're so much better than us until yous at the end of a barrel, ain't ya?"

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Prometheus couldn't hold back the chuckle that rumbled up out of his chest, rolling past his lips like a noisy mountain stream. Then just like that, the amusement was gone. Thugs thinking they could ambush Gods? Why now, just because Zeus was dead (Thankfully) didn't mean there wasn't rules.

Why Prometheus was in the darkest corners of Night City wasn't important. That's not any of your business, is it? All you need to know is he was there, handling his own matters in that clever way of his. Besides, the underbelly of Night City was hardly as cutthroat as the peak of Olympus.

Prometheus' eyes turned first, then his head, to look at man holding the gun to his head. An empty alley-way, just the two of them. That suited him just fine.

"I'm glad you know who you're talking to." Prometheus sighed, cracking a little smile. He'd suffered for this? This scumbag with half a brain? He thought he'd made them better. He clicked his tongue, just once. "You think your gun scares me? Think it scares the god who had the audacity to spit in Zeus' face, not once, but three times?" He mused. The chuckle rolled past his teeth again. Laughing like he knew something no one else did (Which was normally true.)

The thug's gun wavered. Clearly he wasn't used to being so openly mocked. Then again, he probably wasn't used to trying to rob gods, was he?

"Again. You think scares me? Scares the god who spent an eternity being eaten alive by eagles? Scares the God who challenges Titans and Olympians alike?" Prometheus went on, raising an eyebrow when the man didn't respond.

The thug looked terrified. He wore regret like a bride wears a veil. Who could blame him? He'd made the mistake of his life, or well, his death. Tried to rob a God at gunpoint. Really? Like he thought that would work? He should have thought a little bit harder.

The man opened his mouth to speak, but when no words came out, Prometheus spoke for him. "You're going to say how sorry you are, right? Going to promise that none of this would ever happen again, that you'll never make the same mistake?" Prometheus asked.

The thug with the crooked nose nodded his head quickly. Eager to remove himself from the problem he'd created. He hastily dropped his gun at Prometheus' feet and began to back away slowly. He kept opening his mouth like he wanted to speak, but it was like his mouth was full of cotton.

Prometheus nodded his head down the alley way. "Go. I see you again, you'll suffer seven-fold any pain I've endured." Prometheus said with a placid look.

The man didn't need to be told twice. He took his chance, turning and practically running away, coming to exit the alley and continue down the-

CRACK!

A gunshot rang in the alley, bouncing off the walls and fading slower than it normally would have. The thug body collapsed to the ground a mere thiry feet or so from Prometheus.

Crack!
Crack!
Crack!


Why save bullets when you've got near unlimited resources?

Three more rounds ripped into the man's back.
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You don't just kill the man who crosses you, you make an example.

Now. There would be party soon? Time to revel in the demise of his oldest enemy...
 
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Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses. As the ramp of the ferry descended, lightly touching down on the dock the scrum of now ex-humanity surged forward, clutching at their already ragged clothing. Some had been draped in silks, satins and pearls, brightly coloured cloths or fine robes. Others had not known the feel of such luxuries, and the clothing they wore now felt like finery. Death was truly the great redeemer, your body and all its earthly trappings were gone, decomposing, tossed aside or snatched at and squabbled over by those that remain. Then came the judgement, and unfortunately for those deposited on the swamp like shore of the islands nestled in the north east, they had been found wanting. There was to be no reprieve, review or appeal, the decision was final, Hades was simply the jailer, by the by he didn’t care why you were brought here, what you had done beyond those desolate shores mattered little now, the die had been cast.

Crassus struggled to keep his footing, pulled this way and that by the will of the crowd, his roughspun shoes slipping against the damp mossy stones that made up the path. His mind was still trying to catch up with exactly what was happening. A feast. Yes a feast, his feast in fact. Courses upon courses, pig, duck, dormice, spices from the orient and beyond. Wine from Liguria, rich, full bodied and… acrid. He remembered it now, the pain, fire in his belly and what felt like a hand at his throat, squeezing and crushing. He began breathing faster now, his hand fluttering to his neck, he could feel it now, like a shadow, how long had it been…

“Denarii for your thoughts stranger?”

The gravelly voice came from his left hand side, it was almost friendly, the first such one he had heard on his journey since stepping on the black bus. The figure wasn’t particularly tall, definitely under 6 foot. A man, but that was just going off of the voice really, dressed in encompassing robes, and hooded, only a chin and mouth could be seen. The lips turned ever so slightly upwards at the edges, a smile, a rare thing indeed in these parts. Crassus, collected himself, his hand falling back to his side.

“I was just remembering…”

“Oh no use in doing that now. It’s over, like a candle that’s been snuffed out, the smoke lingers for a few moments, and then it too is gone. The candle can be relit, but it isn’t the same flame is it? Best to forget about such things. Long gone and forgotten, focus on the now,”

Crassus could see now a building jutting out, a vast concrete lump. Those born a couple of millenia later would say it looked like some sort of vast bunker, poking out of the marshy sodden ground, but the words and concepts did not exist in Crassus’ time, but he was still intimidated by it, lying squat and heavy on the horizon.

“So this is it. The Underworld?”

The stranger sucked at his teeth and nodded, the hood flapping slightly but revealing no more of his face.

“That’s it. Isn’t much to look at is it. Especially compared to the city of lights back there,” The neon glow of the city was still very much visible on the horizon. Almost close enough to touch, and yet at the same time a world away. “You see back there, they’re running away from death. Try and keep it at bay. They fight the darkness with their pulsing lights, never ceasing. The stench of decay with fine perfumes. The taste of rot with fancy food and spices. Not like here my friend. Here we accept death for what it is, the long journey down and into darkness. No falsehoods or gilded cages.”

The stranger placed a hand on Crassus’ shoulder, and in that moment a shiver went down his spine. Almost like an electric touch from the fingers of the man. The building was looming over them now, the high metalled gates, the colour of rust swung open, revealing a long staircase winding down, the bottom could not be seen, a combination of both the depths and the poor lighting in place. Even here it was damp underfoot, pools of sordid water gathered from drops falling from the ceiling. The hand tightened for a moment, and Crassus’ momentum was arrested, as if his legs had stopped working. He began to shake once more as his eyes turned towards the figure, as they stood there the feeling of dread continued to wash over him, like a rabbit caught in the gaze of a wolf. The stranger tutted and pulled back his hood. The light caught the pale skin, the grey eyes like two pieces of flint, and black as night hair, slicked back but grey tinges beginning to show. The smile was still there, but now it filled Crassus with a primeval dread, even if he did not know why.

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“Oh there really is no need to look so scared… well maybe there is, for you eternity is going to feel like an awfully long time. But I am just the humble jailor, I carry the keys and I keep the cogs creased and the machine in motion. As much as you are a prisoner here you are also my guest, and so as your host I must apologise. Normally as the one I have picked out I would personally escort you down to the final gates, answering questions and the suchlike, of which I’m sure you have many?”

Crassus could only muster the briefest of nods.

“But unfortunately the family are calling. A party of all things, to forget worries and to sweep away sadness, ironically in the company of those we hate and loathe the most. Alas whilst we can pick the people we surround ourselves with, we can not pick our own families. Though in your case Crassus, I would really have chosen a more faithful wife, you could have avoided this for quite a while,” He pinched the shaking man’s cheek, giving it a tug. “Chin up though my friend, no sense in dwelling. Best to make the most of the situation you now find yourself in. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other at some point in the future, we do have all the time in the world after all,”

Hades stepped back from the throng, Raising a hand in Crassus’ direction which was not returned as the gates swung shut. Whistling some half remembered tune he began to trudge through the mire. Ahead of him he could already see the faint glow from the windows of his home, the fog was particularly heavy today, wreathing the estate from view. One of the guardsman on duty jogged after him.

“I can requisition a jeep if you would like Sir?”

Hades simply shook his head, continuing to trudge on.

“Think I can’t handle my own domain eh? I sculpted all this in nothing but a loin cloth, back before this most recent fad, certainly weren’t any jeeps then. Just tell my sweet wife to ready herself we’ll be leaving in a couple of hours. I’d tell her myself but I’d rather avoid our first argument of the day until we’re in the car. Gives me time to limber up,”

He smiled to himself as he continued his journey. What he would have given to let the painted peacocks croon and celebrate without him. More interested in power and beauty than the job that needed to be done. They would be insufferable now Zeus was dead, revealed as the den of hyenas they really were. Laughing and squabbling over the juiciest chunks of the carcass. At least that meant he wouldn’t be bothered, on his distant little shore.

(Mention: ailurophile ailurophile Persephone)
 

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A M B I A N C E
T H E - L O V E - S H A C K

The blues and blacks were almost one in the same in this light. His blood, dripping from the bound wrists behind him, seemed black. Like liquid liquorice... glazed in sugar. Reflecting the pink beams of light in the slowly gathering pool at his feet. He had experienced in these last few hours... days... weeks? A thousand tortures. Every humiliation. Every... punishment Hera could think up. And then every thought her assets could. Begging had meant nothing. Pleading had meant less.

Fuck... he was starting to think maybe he did do it?

Do what?

Why did his head feel so heavy? Why was his cheek so warm? Why did it feel like his brains were dripping from his ears? He tried to move his fingers, hissing as the the fingernail-less tips brushed against the back of the chair. At least the chair was cool. The metal digging into his thighs had numbed his legs. So much so he could barely feel the broken ankle anymore.

Could they not turn down the music? It was so loud...

He could not think straight...

What was he supposed to think about?

Oh...

Zeus. Dead. Fuck...

He was so fucking powerful. So proud. His arrogant boss.

It was him who had dismissed him. Right? He could definitely recall something like that. There was no one else. No one told him to leave. No one bribed him. No one coerced him. He was not a traitor. He was not a TRAITOR.

Zeus. Dead. Fuck... fuck fuck fuck fuck... Hera was so angry when she found him. He had never seen her like that. Was this what loyalty meant to these things? These... gods? You serve them faithfully. Eternally... and then when they... He was NOT a traitor. He protected them for hundreds of years. Why? Why were they doing-

The door opened across the room.

He sat up.

He had done nothing wrong.

Fuck.

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Stepping through the doorway, was a beautiful young man. His hair slicked back. Tall. His clothing pristine. A smirk on his lips that could kill. And his eyes... As the dark pools fell upon the room's only other occupant, the tortured man shrunk. His beautifully destroyed form lost all pride. All resistance. All hope.

Reality dawned.

And then the hardened bodyguard of Zeus... The one who had endured a week's worth of torture with as much dignity as anyone can... The one who had retained a semblance of hope that he might survive this... began to cry.

Eros followed the thin streams of liquid escaping the sides of the man's eyes. His smirk lowered as the tears mixed with the sweat and blood on the other's cheek. Turning a pretty pink color.

"You know me then?"

The man nodded. Of course he did. He had brought so many here. Never into this room. Fuck... he should have known... Was she really this cruel? Did she have this little pity? Any pity?

"No. Hera does not." Eros could not help the smirk forming once more. It felt natural there. And his mother said it made him look handsome. As the man's eyes widened, Eros rose a hand, walking over, sitting across from him on an equally uncomfortable seat, a small metal table between them. "Relax. I can't read your mind." He reached into his jacket, pulling out a silver metal container with a few cigarettes in, as well as a silver lighter. The sudden flash of orange light contrasted with the pink, casting Eros in an ugly brown light, if only for a moment. "I can..." He took a drag, before blowing out. "-read your eyes though."

"Please."
The man spoke, softly. His bruised lips barely parting. The words barley rising above the music.

"Please?" Eros sat back, breathing in deeply, then out in such a luxurious pace that the tortured man in front of him could almost feel something akin to irritation. He stayed quiet though. "How... often do you think I was asked that? In the past." Another drawn out show of breathing in smoke. "By the same people you brought here for Zeus." Almost sarcastically he kissed two of his fingers, raising them up to the sky in some strange salute to the dead god.

"I... know you don't show mercy. Not to your... interviewees. But... my wife... just..." He coughed up blood, leaning forward. His normally intimidating form brought even lower. Intentionally. Every symbol of the pathetic he could think up he displayed for the pleasure of Eros. "Please." Eros took another drag.

"It's good. You know. The show." He pressed the cigarette against the table, watching as the embers turned to ashes against the cool surface. "But as good a show as it is... I have seen it before." He languidly got up, taking off his jacket, revealing a lean, muscled form, broad shoulders accentuated by his waistcoat. Hanging the blaser over the back of the chair, he turned and faced the man. "There is no point in delaying is there?"

The man tied down visibly paled even in the dark room, tugging at the bonds. "Please. Please. Please please please... I did nothing wrong. I promise! I promise." The silver chair started pulling at the floor, the bolts struggling as the man tried to press up, despite his broken foot.

Eros rose a hand. The man quieted down. His eyes glassing over. "If it is any consolation, you won't hate this." He started taking off his tie. "But Hera was clear. She wants a confession beyond all doubt." He undid the buttons on his sleeves, starting to roll them up his forearms. "Normally... I would break your heart. I would bring her in here, and have her love me. More than she ever could love you. I would take her in front of you. Take her from you." The faintest trace of disgust creeped into his voice, but remained dismissive otherwise. "Zeus was happy enough in a confession of a broken heart." He sat down again in front of the other, waving his fingers, a beautifully engraved six chamber revolver appearing in his hand. The chamber empty.

The man, despite being subdued by the aura of power radiating off Eros, was shaking as he tried to break free. The tears were far more robust now.

He had hoped he would survive this. Now he dreaded it.

"Hera is not Zeus though. She is cruel." Checking the gun over, he closed his fist, opening it a moment later. Inside, a beautiful silver bullet lay. He slowly started raising it. "She would have me bring your beloved here. Have her watch as I take you from her. Have you... break her heart." He placed the bullet against his mouth.

And Kissed it.

A moment later the bullet started glowing a faint pink color, the silver pressing against his beautiful, perfect lips. "You are going to love me. More than you have ever loved anyone else. You will tell me everything. You will trust me. I will be your alpha and omega. The beginning and end of all your thoughts and hopes. And in front of your beloved you will renounce everything you two were. And once I have had you. Once she can't think of you as anything else as a devotee of me, will I release you. You will hate me. And while you may wish to return to her..." His eyes hardened, his mouth still caressing the bullet. "You will never feel for her what you have felt with me. Every romance from here on out will only be a shadow of what you feel today. You will never truly love again. When you find release with anyone else my name will be on your lips and in your heart. You will never truly love her again."

He lowered the bullet, placing it in the chamber, rolling it for dramatic effect, before turning the gun on the man. Deep, from within the barrel, the man saw it. A faint pink glow. He closed his eyes. There was a bang.

"You know the shittiest part of all of this. I know you are innocent. "

Eros got up, walked to the door, opened it and called out. "Bring her in."

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Eros had made his way up to his mother's office. He had showered. And smoked. And drank. And now he was stood in front of her door. He knocked. Once. Before opening the door. She always stayed in her office when he had... interviews. He had asked if she was disgusted by it. She had insisted she had better things to do. He supposed he had as well... but rules were rules. "He knows nothing. Hera will be appeased... well... as much as she can be at this time. You can contact her at your leisure. I guarantee the confession. As always." He sat down in one of the chairs, having fixed himself another drink. "Am I to go to this... party then with you?"

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Interaction - Aphrodite - BELIAL. BELIAL.
Mention - Hera - TheFool TheFool

 

Pristinely manicured fingers felt out of place gripping the back of the grubby plastic chair, pulling the metal legs backwards as they dragged against the equally muck ridden floor, a high pitched scraping sound echoing throughout the quaint little hall. He took a seat, attempting to ignore the judgemental gazes of half a dozen curious eyes, their so carefully restrained questions still hanging in the air even if none of them were brave enough to say them aloud.

‘What is he doing here?’

‘Why is he here?’

‘Is this some kind of trick?’

Despite the fact that the room had been filled with audible clamouring just a moment before, a muffled silence descended upon the place as soon as he had arrived, and now every one of them looked to him expectantly, as if waiting for the punchline to some great joke at his own expense.

‘It seems as if we have a new member to our little group. Why don’t you introduce yourself, stranger.’ The woman was young, at least she appeared to be, for it was hard to tell ages in a place like this, where there were many able to take on any form they so chose. She looked at him reassuringly. ‘Go on, friend, there is no judgement here.’

‘I guess I’ll begin then?’ His voice was hoarse, as if it were well accustomed to shouting, a slow drawl without any rhythmic grace. Quiet and tired. ‘My name is Bacchus Dionysus and as of this Wednesday, I’ll have been a week sober for the first time since...’ An awkward pause. An attempt to recall a memory that wasn’t there. ‘For the first time.’ A brief exhale.

‘And you have come to us to help you get through these trying times, and help you remain on the good path?’

‘I suppose.’ He shrugged, unsure of himself. ‘I felt like I needed to talk to someone, my friends aren’t exactly the sober types.’ A subtle smirk, as a few murmurs were raised and hushed in quick succession, the woman shooting a carefully accusatory glare at those who dared speak up.

‘Do not worry, friend. This is a safe place. Nothing that you say here will ever leave this room.’

‘Right.’ Dionysus reached into his shirt pocket, fingers gripping against a few loose cigarettes, taking one and placing it gently against his lips, eyebrows narrowing as he witnessed the silent protests of his companions. ‘I wont light it. I just like the taste.’ With the cig safely rested between his lips, and the taste of nicotine upon the edge of his tongue, he felt a little more secure, a little more at ease.

‘What stories do you have to share with us today, Bacchus?’ The woman paused. ‘Dionysus? Which do you prefer?’

‘Either is fine.’ He grunted, before letting out a brief sigh. ‘Look, I’ve been off the wagon for as long as mortal men have known how to squeeze grapes into wine.’ A talent that he himself had taught them, though he didn’t think this was particularly the crowd that would appreciate that brag. ‘And up until recently, everything has been fine. Totally fine.’

‘But something’s changed?’ The woman interjected. ‘It takes us all a different amount of time to realise we have a problem. Sometimes it takes a catalyst for us to understand our flaws. Did you experience something similar.’

‘Yeah. Something like that.’ He grumbled quietly. ‘Look, I’ve done some really terrible things whilst under the influence, but...’

A crackling fire. A woman’s screams. Silence.

‘You can’t always blame yourself for what you do whilst intoxicated. You have an addiction. A disease.’ Even with the woman’s reassuring words, Dionysus could still feel the lingering judgement in the room.

‘See, that’s what I keep telling myself. I say it’s not me. I can’t really help it, just a brief fit of madness then the regular fun Dionysus comes back and everyone has a good time.’

‘But…’ The woman finished, catching the thought that was hanging in the air.

‘But I’m not sure if that’s really true. The way a lot of people see it. I’m a god, right? God of Wine. God of Parties. God of fucking Pinecones. You get the picture. Shouldn’t I be able to just snap my fingers and get clean just like that? Shouldn’t that be fucking easy for me? To just get over it. I’m supposed to be the perfect being, yet a bit of grape juice has got me all tangled up. My own fucking grape juice.’

‘Do you think they’re right, these people?’

‘I don’t know.’ He paused. ‘Maybe? Apparently for all of the women my father managed to fuck over his long life, none of them were able to squirt out a god of fucking sobriety.’ His wry smile was not matched by those in the room. Apparently it was too soon to be joking about the big guy.

‘Well the first step to fixing a problem is to acknowledge that you have one. You’ve taken a good first step coming here, Dionysus.’

‘We’ll see.’

It wasn’t long before the group moved on to talking about someone else’s issues. Some mortal general wearing a military uniform which Dionysus did not recognise. It wasn’t a surprise, after-all he had been blackout throughout most of the nineteenth century, and mortals had been in so many wars.

Honestly? As the man relayed his own issues, Dionysus found that it was hard to relate. To relate to mortals and their trivial little problems. They lived for less than a century, yet their time on earth always came with so much baggage. Like their problems even mattered in the grand scheme of things.

He tried to listen for a while, but soon it became too much for him to handle, pushing his chair back as he stood up, ignoring all the eyes falling upon him.

‘I’m just going out to light up. I’ll be back in a second.’ He gestured to the cigarette in his mouth, pushing through the door and out into the street to one of Night City’s downtown back alleyways. Far away from where many other gods ever bothered to tread.


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Dionysus stood out like a sore thumb standing in the blackened street as the sun’s rays began to illuminate the city, clad in a leopard print fur coat that stretched down to his knees, and an indigo dress shirt, only half of which he had bothered to tuck in.

Reaching into his pocket in search of a lighter, he soon discovered that he had gone without, his own probably have fallen somewhere on the floor of Strife during the early hours of this morning. ‘Fuck.’ He muttered under his breath. 'Jesus Christ!'

‘Hey buddy, you got a light?’ Accosting a middle aged cyclops across the street didn’t yield the results he was looking for, cursing once again under his breath as he banged a single fist against the wall of the building he had just been inside.

Bzzt.

He could feel his phone vibrate inside of his pocket, but he ignored it for a second, reaching into his coat pocket to grab a small flask and take a sip.

Water.

Bzzt.

How he longed for something stronger.

Bzzt.

Finally he gave up and picked the phone out of his pocket, checking to see who was messaging him so persistently.

Silenus. An old friend. A bad influence.

‘Where you at?’ The message read. ‘You going to Poseidon's?’

‘What’s at Poseidon's?’ Dionysus texted back.

‘Big party. Everyone’s gonna be there. You going?’

‘I dunno.’ He shouldn’t go. He knew he shouldn’t go. Not with tensions so high back on the Mount, but he was the God of Parties, and an Olympian on top of that. He would be expected to be there.

‘You know it’s not a party without you, D.’

‘Fine I’ll be there.’ Dionysus sighed once again, spitting the unlit cigarette onto the floor and stamping it into the ground in frustration. At least someone at the Maritime would have a lighter.

It was at that moment the women from inside decided to make another appearance, sticking her head out the door, clearly a little surprised to see that he was still here. ‘You coming back inside, friend? You’ve been out here for a while.’

‘I got a thing to get to.’ Dionysus shrugged.

‘A thing that might tempt you back down a bad path?’

‘Maybe.’ He shrugged again. ‘Probably.’

‘You know we offer a sponsor service. Someone can stay with you to stop you from drinking.’

Dionysus shook his head. ‘I don’t want a babysitter. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.’

‘It’s for your own good.’

‘No!’

‘Well, if you change your mind, I’ll give you my number. Call if you ever feel the need to talk to someone again.’

‘Sure.’ She handed him a tiny slip of paper with a few numbers scrawled loosely upon it in pen, the name Elpis written neatly on the top. ‘I’ll keep you in mind.’ Dionysus shoved the number deep into one of his pockets. ‘Sorry sweetheart, but I’ve got places to be.’

He raised two fingers to his lips, whistling and sticking his hand into the road until a garish yellow and black spotted sports car materialised in the middle of the street.

‘We’ll see you next time then?’

‘Maybe.’
 
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APHRODITE, goddess of sex + desire
location: the golden apple mention:
TYPE TYPE (eros) idalie idalie ailurophile ailurophile (Peithos)
She had had every intention of making the new day productive. Ever since the old man kicked the bucket a week ago, daylight was restored to Night City. No longer a plaything under Zeus' thumb, the regular cycles came to be. Some people would enjoy that, for a new day brings new joys. New experiences. For Aphrodite, however, days meant less work. Neon lights were faded in a shining sun, and no one prowled the streets just like they did at night. All things were different, and although she was glad Zeus was dead, she wanted to keep Night City as the name suggested; in the night. Nevertheless, she'd had a week to try and commit to a lifestyle during the day that different from her night hours. Boring management stuff, worth it for the Golden Apple however, and a few gigs around town. The more her face shined from this shiny billboards, or glistened on the TV, the better. She thrived on this attention, this worship. It was the second best thing to whatever bullshit the humans got up to down below.

So yes, she'd planned on meeting up with some new shipments, sizing them up for work at her strip club, and maybe even scoring a few business connections. But then old Ares had to waltz in to her office-- and she was sure he had done it on purpose. Rarely could the goddess resist a man like Ares. Tanned features to put even the most handsome italians to shame, and a swagger that spoke volumes. She told Peithos to tell Eros she was doing an interview, and for the most part not to bother her. She liked her private time with the man, just so she could soak him all in. Treasure what was hers, and no one elses. Aphrodite loved to be loved, in short.

And, well, Ares knew how to love. Rough. Passionate. Full of life and none of the boring stuff. She'd admit it to everyone but that was something she despised in her husband. He was boring. Simple. Way too fuckin' dull. She was more than just the flesh she wore and the hairspray she coated her curls in; she was sex, and desire, and above all things love. But a twisted love, a physical love. Woe be to the fool who fell for Aphrodite, for she loved no one so much as she loved glamour and style. Attention. Attractiveness.

Power.

Her skirt tossed up her hip, blouse unbuttoned to her navel, bra half-way across the room, and a wild look in her eyes, Aphrodite dug her nails into Ares' chest. She giggled, gripping his chin tightly with her claws. She lazily tossed his head from side to side, taking in his profile. Bending down for a fierce kiss, she directed one of his hands to her hips. "So tell me, warlord, how badly you want--"

The door opened, unceremoniously. Eros strode in, immediately talking. Aphrodite narrowed her eyes but didn't budge, her head snapping to follow her 'son' as he entered. She rolled her eyes.

"Knocking once is fine and dandy, but god forbid you listen when I'm busy," she hissed, tossing her hair over her shoulder. As much as she resented being interrupted, Eros had important information. News, as it was.

"He knows nothing. Hera will be appeased... well... as much as she can be at this time. You can contact her at your leisure. I guarantee the confession. As always." She grinned. She'd want a full follow-up sometime later. Every detail and every emotional gauge in the man would be beneficial. Even if he knew nothing, she ventured he might have been forced to believe something otherwise. Any answer to Zeus' death was a benefit to the other gods. Was this a one time thing, or someone staging a coup of the Greek overlords? Anubis had the body, and the answers to Zeus' brutal murder, but the pawns around him had vital information many wouldn't even figure they had. Every piece of the puzzle was crucial.

"Your services are well-purposed. Thanks a billion and love ya lots kid. Hera can suck on her own god damn tit for all I care." Aphrodite remained perched on her lover, reaching for a glass of bourbon on her desk, next to the couch. She took a sip, rattling the liquid against her teeth. Eros asked about the party tonight and Aphrodite all but rolled her eyes, again. She knew little of what Poseidon was planning, although he had been grumbling for centuries prior to Zeus' passing. Something about reform and policing. It was stupid, to the goddess, but whatever way he wanted to play the game was fine with her. If she kept her customers, and kept her girls, she would be pleased. She'd have to make sure he had those plans in mind, with whatever shit-pot he was stirring up.

"Party? Put it on Poseidon to make a show of his brother's death. I'd do the very same," she said and she nodded. "Yes, you'll come too. You're my eyes and ears baby, you know this." She slipped off Ares to trot over to Eros, pinching his cheek with her painted nails. Her grin was wild, with specific intent. She'd share the details later with Eros, preferably on the limo to Poseidon's. She could go about it now, with Ares half dressed behind her, but the girl was finicky. She stood straight, giving Eros a gentle slap on the cheek. A pep-up. Whirling around, sipping her drink again, she stared lustily at Ares.

"Business calls darling. If you come by the party we can sneak away and finish... our fun. However I must contend, I've got things to do. Fucking sunshine. Helios was better off slumming it at his estate, in my opinion," she drawled, strolling back to her desk and fetching her bra. Fixing her shirt and skirt, she stared with her bright eyes at Ares. "Ta-ta for now darling. Say hi to Hera while you're out, preferably with a knife to the face."

 
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THE MORRÍGAN


The old king is dead.
What a terrible dread. Now the old queen lay in her bed...
Alone.

Her thin lips curled around another sip of coffee, her line of sight never breaking from the cityscape. Far on the horizon, their castle stood, a ghostly looking monolith which lay at the very heart of Night City. The rising sun cast the stone structure in gold, its shimmering decadence bleeding into the surrounding skyline. It used to speak truths without having uttered a single word, testaments which rang about the city like church bells.

Too loud, her husband would say. It's too ghastly a noise.
He'd look out over the city towards Mount Olympus with a grimace, silently seething.

There were no truths today. When she shut her eyes and listened, there were only whispers, their candor turned sour overnight. The bells had gone quiet, reduced to wary cries and secrets.

Still staring, her delicate fingers swept over the leather surface of a book in her lap.
Did he know? Could any of them have foretold the old king's death? Even more important, would it have done them any use? The Norsemen knew of their apocalypse from the very moment they were made up from the void. They were born knowing their end, resigned to it.
What purpose was knowing when you could do nothing to change it?

You could prepare for it. You could steel yourself against it and go out with a bit of dignity. Write a will, make it known what you'd like done with your corpse, write letters to those you may have loved... To those you may have lost.

What would the old king say? What would he not say?
Perhaps, she thought, it is best that he had not known.

Morrigan sat in a wicker chair on the patio of her flat. There was a breeze about and it billowed in the sheer curtains she had draped over the open doorway. Music played softly in the background, distant and unclear. Setting aside her mug of coffee, Morrigan stood as there came a knock at her front door.

She knew her end and, fortunately for her, she also knew this...



Somewhere inside her flat, a record scratched and a new song started playing louder than the last. As she passed through the kitchen, she set her book on the counter and headed to the front door. Opening it only slightly, she peered through the crack. After a moment, she smiled and threw it open in full.

"Haven't gotten the news? Wartime's over."

"The way I hear it, it's just begun."


Morrigan stared. She tilted her head as if considering the other's words and nodded once.
"Ever right you are."

Beaming, she fell forward and embraced the woman standing in her doorway. "I'm so glad you came." Her fingers curled into the woman's coat and she shut her eyes tight. "I've missed you."

"Of course I came! Let me in, will you?"


Stepping back, Morrigan bounced on her feet. She peered at the woman and inspected her from head to toe as if to prove she actually stood in front of her. Shaking her head slowly, she finally turned as the woman came through the door and headed back into the kitchen, leaving the woman in the foyer. Morrigan's gaze swept over her flat sheepishly. Pieces of paper and bits of trash with writing on it covered every spare inch of space. It was pinned to the walls and taped to the windows. Pages were sprawled over the floor, making it hard to walk. Everything that could be written on was written on, words in languages known and not known. She'd a forrest of knowledge scrawled on and placed about haphazardly, trailing from one room to the other without break.

"Mm. Ignore the mess."

As the woman followed her in, her brows furrowed. "This is extensive, Morrigan. I heard you were writing another book but... Haven't you got a laptop?"

"I did, but I got angry with it."

"And?"

"And I chucked it off the balcony. It was late and I didn't want to run out and get another so..."

She waved her hands about to indicate the result.

"How long ago was that?"

"Last night?"
She tilted her head as if to consider the exact time.

"Morrigan..." The woman stopped and stared at her, barely having moved from the entrance.

"Brigid..." Morrigan stared back at her with a wide and pointed look.

With a sigh, the woman started to take off her coat. Carefully stepping over Morrigan's work, she scowled as she looked for a place to hang it. There was none and so she kept it with her. "And which book is this?" She asked as Morrigan hurried about the kitchen, fixing drinks for the two of them.

"It's more of a collection. Volume one starts in the foyer and trails off..." She looked around and gestured vaguely at the refrigerator. "It more or less ends here."

"Hmm."
Brigid nodded slowly, ducking down to read some of the writing in the hallway outside the kitchen. "This is ancient sumatran." Flipping back a piece of paper, she observed the writing underneath, writing on the wall.

"Sanskrit, yes. I'm still working on the exact translation."

"Are there any juicy bits of prophecy you can divulge?"


Morrigan peeked around the corner. "Always." With a wink, she waved Brigid forward.

Finally entering the kitchen, Brigid threw her coat over a chair by the island and took a seat, grateful to be someplace she couldn't step on anything from. Crossing her arms over the table in front of her, she busied herself by gently brushing some of the paper out of her way.
"So, pray tell, why've you called on me?" She asked. As Morrigan set a drink in front of her, Brigid looked at her questioningly.

"It's more whiskey than cranberry," she reassured.

"That's not... Morrigan, it's ten in the morning."

"Mm-hm."
Hugging her torso with one arm, Morrigan took a sip of her drink and leaned against the counter behind her.
"A party," she said flatly.

"What?"

"That's why I've called on you. Be my plus one, darling."


Brigid pressed her lips into a thin line and blinked several times, processing the information. "You couldn't have asked over the phone?"

"Would you have come?"

"No."

"Then what's the use?"
She tossed back the rest of her drink and turned to pour another. "You're here and I'm asking- No, you know what?" She slammed the whiskey bottle down. "I'm telling. You're my plus one. We're going to have some fun. End of story."

Taking up her glass, Brigid wagged a finger at her. "That's not fair." Taking a drink, she swished the beverage about in her mouth. "This is warm," she murmured, frowning at the rest of her drink. Setting it aside, she looked up at Morrigan who was now perched over the counter in front of her, the green of her eyes glowing.

"What say you?"

"I thought you were telling me."
Morrigan was quiet. Brigid set her jaw and made a face. "Fine. What's it for?"

"It probably has something to do with Zeus."
Brigid swallowed and shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Watching her, Morrigan raised her drink into the air and made a toast. "Long live the king."
 
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Ares - God of War & Battlelust
Location: The Golden Apple
Mentions: BELIAL. BELIAL. (Aphrodite) TYPE TYPE (Eros)

Ares had long imagined the death of Zeus, an elaborate dream gilded with vindictive trimmings. To be despised by your father was no simple thing, shunned by your creator for the nature you adopted under his watchful gaze. Yet the joy which had invigorated his very spirit was fading into the melancholy of change. Night City was heading into a struggle which even the blind could see coming, schemes and machinations brewing over as a dozen beggars clamoured for scraps. Everyone wanted a piece. A taste. More blood would be spilt, he had not predicted but hoped. Mortals were enjoyable to manipulate in their rage, however, there was a dark and ruinous desire to see his siblings warring with no such strings.

Only one person in that city of sin always drew him back out of familiarity, Ares carefully dancing around the word love. Aphrodite had that effect, he was irrevocably and maddeningly in love without the words to speak it. He was one of many, a frequent pilgrim to the Golden Apple. There were lulls, quiet months apart and still the God of War felt helpless whenever they reunited. She was burned into him, no other woman could come close - they shared blood. He knew what he was doing the moment he walked into her office, there were no deals to be had, no other business but her skin against his. What little resolve he had to move on from the goddess had been shattered a long time ago. She would be the death of him.

Falling into the couch at her push, straddled by her slender legs, there was nothing else left to ponder. Smouldering gazes gave way to discarded clothes and rough touch. Sensual even where pain was concerned, digging her nails into his bare chest whilst his smirk grew into a grin. Hands guided to her waist where they kneaded the skin, shifting one palm to cradle her face as they kissed furiously; holding her closer when she pulled back as if not to let her slip away. Mirroring her hold, equal force outshone by passion. Aphrodite spoke, Ares listened; her sultry tone not gone amiss but the game humouring.

The door opened before he could respond or she could finish and in strolled ever-confident Eros. Ares’ face dropped and fleetingly the fantasy of murder seemed far too attractive. He’d never been sure of the kid, even when Aphrodite had told him the boy was his - the God of War put it down to taking after his mother. He was much too sure of it given the moment.

“I didn’t know we were due a reunion,” He dryly muttered, slumping back into the cushions as Aph leant for her drink, comfortable as she was. It wasn’t just useless conversation occupying the interruption, Ares found himself in more than one position as he listened to the woman between his legs. The blue of his eyes darkened by thoughtful shadow, brooding any number of possibilities. It wasn’t his place to worry, that was reserved for whatever justice could be found. Unlike the drawn confession Eros mentioned.

Aphrodite moved, leaving his lap with a saunter, Ares standing to button his trousers for modesty. Laughably. Pulling his shirt from the floor, whatever tie he had long gone, the warlord eyed his lover.

“I’ll be there, that is unless Poseidon has an issue with me wanting to - simply - grieve our dear father. Although I’ll hold you to that proposition - as long as it’s a door that locks.” His gaze swept accusingly to Eros.

Waving her listings of business to the side he arched his brow lazily, “and I’m sure Helios will regret leaving it, hm?” Softly grunting as he swept up his jacket, preparing to leave as Aph stared and took to finding her own clothes. She was forever a whirlwind, less of a compliment to her work ethic and moreover to some sort of natural disaster. Ares leant in for a casual kiss on the way past, lips brushing her cheek for a friendly farewell.

“Remind me again if I ever pass by the old place, just be thankful she's my mother, not yours,” He jested, shouldering through the office doors and heading downstairs. Cautious for any sign of Hephaestus lurking about, an ingrained uncertainty as he walked through the mostly empty club and out onto the street, digging in his pockets for a crushed box of cigarettes and tattered matchbook. He was right about the family get together, uncles and siblings galore. Hera herself.

He lit the cigarette, pulling a lungful of nicotine with the sharp hiss of burning tobacco.

The temptation to see the mess unfold in real time was too strong to pass up.
 
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NEMESIS, goddess of retribution
location: night city streets mention: High5ives High5ives
Perhaps she was the only one who truly loved her father. Zeus, as terrible and mighty as he was, a part of her felt indebted to him. They got along when they did, and fought when they didn't. But there was a part of Zeus that Nemesis saw in herself. His ungodly temper, yes, but they clicked on the things they talked about. It felt less like a parent-child relationship at times, because that was the nature of the gods, and more like a loyal servant. She protected the family when they paid well, and sometimes for shits and giggles. Talking with Zeus on those late nights, a cigar between his lips and a story rousing like smoke from the fire, warmed the aloof woman. This goddess, who fought so hard to protect the honour of the gods. To exact punishment on those who dared defy, or flex their hubris.

Night City did not put an end to her goals. There were plenty of greedy Elysians that tried to float above their ranks, but they didn't understand that they were pawns. That they were ants. One kill and they were gone, or carted off to the Underworld. They had no power here.

That was the way of the gods.

Hearing of his death left a hole in Nemesis. It felt wrong to her, like it wasn't real. Like it hadn't happened. Nem didn't get sad, but she was angry. Vengeful. She vowed to find his killer and make them pay. But that would be a long road, convoluted and complicated to the bone. She knew this.

She needed someone smart on her side.

This was how she found her way in the winding streets, sunlight peeking across the building tops of Night City. It was strange how the humans, dead as they were, made their own home here. Not all remained in their luxurious estates or in the decrepit hole of the Underworld. Some liked to slum it around; perhaps as an echo to their past lives. It seemed the scummiest of souls roamed these streets. They populated the enterprise that Zeus kept-- had kept. To an extent, she didn't mind. So long as they kept their place, and didn't mind her foot up their ass or her gun down their throat, of course. As it happened some liked to taunt the idea that the souls had power; because well, somehow they did. A god had died; like really died. Not just a god-tier explosion or a familiar, magic laced murder but something... human. Messy.

Degrading. Dishonorable.

This person she sought for would probably understand the concept; if she had heard right. She was a babe to the titan, but the end of days approaching meant that all were approaching entropy. Alliances were needed, and safety precautions were necessary. Just to tie everyone over till another Earth, and their worship resumed.

But retribution never ceased for Nemesis. Vengeance never curved. She was an arrow, straight to the heart of man and god alike.

She heard the gunshots, and it directed her to an alley. Crossing her arms as she stared down, she watched the twitching thug cease to move on the ground. Smoke simmered from the weapon at hand, right in the grasp of Prometheus. Just who she needed.

Hopefully he'd be complicit.

"Excessive much?" She quipped, striding forward to poke the thug with her heel. "They're just dumb meat-bags. Trapped in their earth mentality. But I get it, you know. You have to teach them a lesson."

Uncrossing her arms she walked forward again. Little emotion crossed her eyes, and her red hair bounced in the growing morning light. "I need your help, to put it short. You're a brilliant mind, I won't bat around the bush. It's about Zeus. His death. I won't ask you to avenge his death, but I want answers. We need answers. If Elysians, or lesser gods, get the idea that we can die whenever... I'm not the only one who would be uncomfortable with that idea."

 
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The wispy smoke drifted lazily from the still upraised pistol. Stagnant air, no wind to blow it away. Nothing to fade the smell of gun-smoke or the distinctive metallic smell of spilled blood. That was a good way to describe Elysia. Stagnant. Nothing ever really changed here. This cesspool would be a cesspool for all of eternity. Faces may change, but nothing else. Somethings are stubborn in their habits, the underbelly of Elysia was one of those things.

Through the haze of the gunsmoke, Prometheus watched as Nemesis jabbed her heel into the dead thug in the middle of the road. Of all the Greek Pantheon, She was one of the most hypocritical in Prometheus' eyes. Goddess of Justice, Retribution, and yet she served Zeus like a loyal dog. Zeus, in all his disgusting greed and self righteousness. Where was the justice in that?

The words that poured from her lips were about what Prometheus would have expected from her. A lesser man, a mortal man, may have been distracted by her looks. Like nearly all Gods, she was an image of near perfection. She wasn't Aphrodite of course, The Goddess of Lust somehow seemed to redefine beauty, but Nemesis was still attractive by any man's standards.

Unfortunately, She was pleading to a Titan. Not a man.

Pleading.

That's what she was doing, wasn't it. She came to him, with nothing to offer, asking for help to solve a crime that Prometheus really couldn't care less about. As far as he was concerned, whoever killed Zeus deserved an award, not a hunting party.

Prometheus looked at her with eyes like gates. Hard on the outside, but hiding secrets. Knowledge. Tales and stories that could make or ruin a man, or maybe a god. "You should be afraid." Prometheus stated. He slowly holstered his gun, taking his time to put it in place and smooth his coat back over. He rushed for no one, especially not for some low tier Goddess. A hunting hound for Olympus.

"People start thinking they can go around killing Gods, who do you think they'll come for first?" He asked, cocking his head and raising his eyebrows. "The god who saved them? Gifted them fire? Molded their very being?" Prometheus huffed in amusement. He stood there silently for a moment letting the idea sink into her mind. Let it seep into her being.

"Or will they come for you? The Goddess of vengeance. I wonder how much pain you've caused the dead? I wonder how many ships Poseidon has sunk. How many hearts Aphrodite has broken. How many lives have Ares' little wars claimed?" Prometheus stared down the Goddess, practically challenging her to try and contradict his analysis. He was right though wasn't he? Compared to the other gods, Prometheus stood blameless. If Elysia decided to go for blood, the Titan had only to gain from it.

Letting the Goddess of Retribution get torn apart by an angry mob would be quite the irony wouldn't it?

"So. Are you going to make me a worthwhile offer, or are you going to stand there wasting both of our time?" He demanded, breaking the cool composure to glare at her. Maybe, once upon a time, Prometheus would have helped out of the kindness of his heart. There was no love left in the Titan's heart though. He wasn't even sure if there was a heart at all...

BELIAL. BELIAL.
 
Hephaestus

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The constant goddamn thumping. It felt like a hole was being bored deep into his skull, each thump penetrating deeper and deeper. Normally the sound was comforting like a metronome ticking away in the background, a steady constant beat, the heartbeat of the mountain. Of the gods. But the mountain top was vacant now, it’s king dead, and yet his heartbeat continued to torment his son. With a roar of anger Hephaestus swung round, the open robe he was wearing fluttering and the hint of a gut appearing beneath the silk folds, it had been a hard week. He launched the glass that was in his hand, it flew across the room in an arc, before colliding with the head of the hammer wielding automaton, the glass shattering against the smooth featureless surface. It slowly turned, towards him, the blank slate where its eyes should have been staring into his own.

“Don’t give me that fucking look, I fucking made you, and I can do what I bloody well want with you,”

He stood there, chest rising and falling. The place was a mess. The grand workshop and forge of Hephaestus, the mortals told tales of the wonderous objects that littered it, the Armour of Achilles, Hermes’ Winged Sandals and Helios’ chariot to name a few of the objects that had been made here. For the past week however the fires had been cold and the forge silent. Until this automaton, continuing its purpose that he had laid out had resumed work. He limped towards it, his can gripped in his left hand, the silver top shaped like a blacksmith’s anvil grasped tightly in his hand. The limp never normally bothered him here, in his domain. Here he was at home, away from the stares and gazes, of disgust and pity, part of the reason he never crafted his workers with eyes. But now with all the tumult and heartache that had come, the pain and stiffness was stronger than ever, even here. He smacked his left hand into the automaton’s chest, and it took a step back, its head jerkily cocking to one side as if not quite sure why it was being confronted in such a manner, this was after all its very purpose. To man the forge for its master. You could quite literally hear the gears turning in its mind as it tried to compute the situation it was confronted with.

“The King is dead, my Father is dead. At the time I want to be alone with my thoughts and to mourn, you create this damn noise, I should j..j..ju..ju..just…”

He struggled to find the words, his tongue tied in knots. What did he want to do? Tear this machine apart, that he had forged and given life to. It would be easy, to unmake what he had wrought, to let the forge fires inside of him flare out of control. There’s no question it would bring a modicum of satisfaction. But anything lasting? No. And if he was honest his anger was not directed at this simple thing. He sighed, his shoulders slumping, he patted the worker on the shoulder.

“Power down for the rest of the day. We’ll continue work after I return from the party,”

The Party. His father’s body was hardly cold and already his uncle was making his play for power. And they called Hephaestus the monster of the family. He limped his way out of the workshop, several other automatons passing him by, making room for him as he stalked down the corridor, his mood as dark as the lingering shadows. Even among all the activity he was alone, pale imitations of companions and friends stalking about him. He came to a halt before the bed, a monstrosity of a thing, four posters and big enough for 4 people. No need really when he was the only one who ever seemed to use it. He could still see his imprint in the mattress and sheets, but the other side was unmarked, her absence looming large in the impression less expanse of white cotton. He pulled a mobile out of his robe. A simple flip phone, not quite in keeping with the imposed 80s aesthetic of Night City, but one of his own personal little favourite pieces, a certain retro elegance to it that the later models just couldn’t match, far too much glass and far too flimsy.

No new messages. No voicemails. No missed calls. Not from the person who mattered most anyway. The messages of goodwill and commiserations had quickly dried up, he was an Olympian in little but name, the few sycophants who had sought him out in those tumultuous early days had soon gone on to other more receptive and politically active family members. They hadn’t believed him when he said he was actually in mourning, and when they realised it went beyond a black arm band and a few forced tears. Posiedon had probably already hired his caterers before the body had hit the ground. He opened up the contacts list, it was the first one there.

Aph

His thumb hovered over the call button. Was there really any point, the chance of her answering was low. The chance of a positive outcome to any conversation was most likely even smaller. But he couldn’t give up, even now when he wanted nothing more than to crawl back under the sheets with the bottle he had liberated from Dionysus’ stash (which he believed was safely under lock and key, but given the fact that Heph had made the cabinet for him…). His thumb stabbed against the call button before he could talk himself out of it. It didn’t even get the chance to ring, going straight to voicemail. If he’d rang her work number he was sure he would have at least got the chance to ring through. It was easier this way though.

“Hey…”

He forced himself to swallow, his mouth instantly drying up. He truely was fucking pathetic. Great start, really going to knock her dead and bring her back with that aweinspring starter. Can fix anything except your own goddamn marriage.

“... parties still on tonight down the Maritime. I assume you’ll be going. If you want we could give it a go and try and make a go of presenting a unified and happy front, seeing as how the the rest of the family will be there. It would be good to see you again I, er…”

He sat down on the bed, staring at the empty space next to him.

“I miss you, would be good to see you before the party if you can make it,”

He hung up before his mouth began cashing cheques his mind hadn’t authorised. He looked up at the black suit hanging from the wardrobe. He’d have to scrub up, and lose a bit of the gut before leaving. It had been a week, and everyone else had appeared to have moved on. It was time for him as well.

(Interaction: BELIAL. BELIAL. Aphrodite)
 
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A M B I A N C E
N I G H T - C I T Y - M O R G U E

------------------------------------------

...My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains.
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness.
......
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral
eglantine;
Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves...

Darkling I listen, and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die...


------------------------------------------

The words came ever softly, and gently to him. The methodical act sacrosanct in its slow dignity. The task itself had not come as gently as the execution thereof. And were he a lesser god, he may have been offended at the avarice of the would be queen. Her shouts had been so loud and so indignant he had feared she would wake his clientele.

To question his unwavering attention? On this, his most accomplished of subjects? The youth know not...

of what they speak...

Then again, she probably did. Had she found some strange comfort in exerting herself over him? Was that what her husband would have done? If so, he could not help but think that for all her bluster it was really a poor showing. A pale imitation of a far greater wrath.

In a way, it would have been even more insulting. Had he chosen to see it at such.

But he was too old for such things. Such things as ego. Such things as fruitless exertion. The games the Greeks played did not fascinate him. He had seen all that could be seen before them. Before their tall mountain was but an anthill. Before the noise. Before the power. Little they did surprised him anymore. In their honor-less ways they were uniquely predictable.


Three eternities. Had they not learnt yet? Will they ever? Or will they all come to him first? Again...

Was it such time again? Where the old becomes older still? And the decrepit young too see their age lay before them as grains of sand and not as a desert.

Too many are too often too willing to mistake life as a singular thing, and forget that like the deserts of home...

Home?

Could he but imagine that radiant heat against his neck he would smile.

Footsteps upon the bank of the life giving river. His children showing him the makeshift graves of the incorrectly buried.

How had such a simple, flighty gesture gained for it such an insurmountably heavy price? To smile was to betray what was. What is. To smile was to forget.

To be Greek.

It is not one thing. It never was.


A soft finger touched the stern lips of the dead sky-god.


"Where is your smile, young one? You wore it so gladly. So plentifully. So keenly... to show the fervor of your soul. So powerful a smile. Damning when need be. Delightful and devilish in equal measure."

How could she question him? What did she know? Of the languid dance between thread and skin. Of salves meticulously curated over lifetimes. Of rites... The Right Rites.

It had been a long time still, in which he had to affix a head.

Longer still that he had to re-affix it. But the would be queen had been... adamant. Perhaps in their gruesome folly they are uniquely qualified to understand when a head had not been replaced properly. As often as she seemed to lose her head as of late, she may well be an expert.


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"I don't often find pleasure in my work. It is a comforting thing to hold the hands of the dead, yes - but it serves not as pleasure. Then again..." He leant down, his dark form coming from the shadows which enveloped his office, his gaunt face, tanned and tired entering the beam of light illuminating Zeus. "I will find pleasure however, in reuniting you with your bride. A pair such as you, should not be apart. It is not healthy. Perhaps you can find it in yourself to be faithful in your demise? I am sure she will find it a worthy development." He squeezed the cold hand, now devoid of that obvious power. Devoid of thunder. Before returning to the sewing of the neck.

The rites of death of the Greeks were easy enough to understand. Money. Coercion. Personal Excellence. And Judgement. Similar, if not exactly so. Knowledge worked better. It was worth more than coins. A challenge was worth more than a bribe. It lacked ceremony. It was... cheap. The Norse had their fire and ships. A beautifully symbolic elevation of the burial. They all abandoned the body though. Such a waste. It was dead. It was not nothing.

Even lying here, on a metal table, eyes closed, coins resting atop the lids, Anubis could feel the power. It was still there. The history. The challenges faced. And they would discard it so quickly? So wastefully.

He ran a hand over the chest, the stomach. The Abdomen. The brow.

Yes, he did not often take pleasure in his work. But today was a good day.

He stepped away from the body, turning to a different table, on which four jars stood. The Four sons of Horus. Standing beside them, he wrote Hera a letter, his slow, methodical text beautiful and ancient across the papyrus.

THE BODY HAS BEEN PREPARED AS PER YOUR INSTRUCTIONS. ALL GREEK AND ROMAN TRADITIONS OBSERVED. I HAVE REATTACHED THE HEAD AS YOU REQUESTED. HE IS READY FOR BURIAL AT YOUR LEISURE.

Sending the message off with an aid, it would find her in good time. Turning off the lights, he secured the premises, walking from it with his briefcase, inside of which rested securely the four jars. It was not everyday he brought back new friends from work.

---------------------------


MENTION - HERA - TheFool TheFool
 
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THE MORRÍGAN

"You're sure it's not a wake?"

"The invitation said it was a party."


"Hm... Perhaps it's to celebrate his life then," Brigid pondered.
Still unsure, she sat on the edge of Morrigan's bed and laid back, brushing her hair out so that it lay over the white sheets like a fiery burn, deeply red and curled. Morrigan's bedroom was the only room in the house which hadn't been completely overwhelmed by paper. In fact, if Brigid had been greeted by this room from the start, she'd have never suspected the mess Morrigan had made outside of it. Even the bathroom had sticky notes stuck to the mirrors, the paper warped by steam.
Rubbing circles into her temples with her thumbs, Brigid shut her eyes. Morrigan genuinely worried her sometimes. She obsessed and drained herself of energy. She'd forget to sleep and forget to eat and lock herself away in dark places. Brigid had a feeling this party was an excuse, a reason to get out of the house and, however much Brigid might loathe going, she couldn't deny Morrigan her reprieve.

Brigid tilted her head back as the goddess swept around the corner of her closet. Striking a pose, the war god fanned the collar to a brightly colored, floral suit. She tilted her head down to stare over the tops of rose-tinted Ray Bans.
"I don't know where I'm going from here, but I promise," she did a slow circle, "it won't be boring."

Brigid beamed, "Very nice." Her smile faltered thereafter, and she was none too quick to hide it. "You don't think black would be more appropriate?"

"It's a party, Brigid. What are you going to wear?"
Brigid waved her hands down over her torso, indicating the clothes she had on, and Morrigan scoffed. "That won't do. No. No no no..." Disappearing into her closet again, she started rummaging about.

"Morrigan... A god just died. One of the greeks." When Morrigan neglected to respond, Brigid continued. "Shouldn't we be giving them their space? Time to mourn? It's only been a week." She paused again. Sitting up, she bounced off the bed and strode over to the closest. Morrigan sat on a stool inside, clutching her white hair in tight fists. Her eyes were shut hard. "Sweetheart?" Brigid tried.

Standing fast, Morrigan knocked the stool back behind her. "Do you think they mourned Neit or any of the Norse gods?" She sorted through the clothes in front of her without looking at Brigid. Her voice was high strung. "Did their deaths give them any pause?"

Brigid stared, not sure how to respond.

"We may be lesser gods but we were loved, Brigid. We were respected on Earth." She paused, her fingers lingering over a silk dress. "We still are," she breathed and shut her eyes. Opening them again, they burned. She radiated a heat she hadn't felt in years. "I've never seen anyone take so much for granted." Turning toward Brigid, she chuckled. "I mean, don't you find it kind of backwards? Them worshipping us? If it weren't for their prayers and their belief... We'd be nothing. There would only be the void."

This was anger, years of pent up emotion funnel into an outburst which expand beyond the party and beyond the Greeks.
This was a problem she had with god-kind.

Morrigan's face fell as she stared. Her gaze went out of focus as though she were staring at something unseen and close.
"I'm going to dance," her eyes brimmed. "And I'm going to drink... And laugh and spit on the old fiend's grave." She turned and started searching through her clothes again. "And when the next dies, I'll do it again and again and again... Till they finally get their heads out of their arses," she muttered. Tearing a dress off the rack she whipped around to face Brigid. "How's this?"

Brigid spoke quickly. "Great. Yeah... I love it."
 
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NEMESIS, goddess of retribution
location: night city streets mention: High5ives High5ives
"You should be afraid."

Nemesis kept her cool, for she was ever patient. Diligence in patience was her strong suit, and there was never a need to rush things. Not to Nemesis. For where there was justice, it would be inevitable. Her private investigation into Zeus’ killing needed assistance, and she’d be a fool to risk losing any type of support. If it were those dead mortals, somehow breaking their patterns and being conscious of the oppressive force of the gods, she’d need a man who could speak to them. If it were a god, she’d need a god himself who had the age and power many didn’t.

And if it were the god in front of her, she’d rather keep him within arms reach.

He was condescending in his tone, but Nemesis didn’t sweat. She had considered most of the possibilities, and figured that her goal outweighed the consequences, were they to be disastrous ones. One of the Olympians could easily be next, perhaps to eliminate any chance of Greek rule over Night City. This could be a slow power move. Crippling.

It was why she needed to attend to this now, rather than later.

Prometheus would need more persuading, as it was. She didn’t expect an immediate ‘yes’ from the titan. He, of all people, would be the least inclined to figure the little ‘mystery’ out.

But there were divine implications when someone like Zeus died. It extended beyond petty grudges among gods and retribution-- her strong-suit-- against the gods.

"So. Are you going to make me a worthwhile offer, or are you going to stand there wasting both of our time?" He said, and she crossed her arms tightly. A light smirk crossed her face.

“If I wanted your charity, or to waste your time, I’d tell a long story about how or why it’s important the question of who killed him is answered. But I won’t. I offer you my blade,” she said extending her hand out. She grew serious in this moment, a grimace crossing her face. “I’ve killed before, for the Olympians. I’ll kill again, in your name. Whoever, whatever you want. Greek, Egyptian, Norse… I will kill them. Only if you help me, however.” Her eyes danced in his gaze, not wanting to give the entire pleading tone and degrade her case.

“I understand that you have nothing to fear if this killer is one of the meat-bags. Yes, you’re a champion of the mortals. But are you a champion of the gods, Prometheus? If his killer is anyone else, any other god, you have no protection. The only thing you share with that killer is your hatred for Zeus. And he is dead,” she insisted. Her hand remained outstretched.

Were he to take her offer, she’d have a lot more baggage to carry. Already she assumed that the family would be wary of her. She was one of Zeus’ closest bodyguards, glorified through her relationship to him. She was loyal, loyal to her core. She wouldn’t kill someone if she swore her allegiance. There was no honour in that. But fuck it all if no one believed in her, or really liked her-- she was cold and uncomfortable to be around. All Nemesis cared about was justice.

Were he not to take her offer, she’d be gone. There were plenty of other brilliant minds in Night City, spreading across all the pantheons. He wouldn’t be the only help she wanted anyway.

This story would be complicated, and this was only the beginning for Nemesis.

 
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Prometheus' eyebrows furrowed as he considered the offer. Sure, Nemesis was accomplished. She had no shortage of stories spoken in hushed tones, after all, you don't end up Zeus' body guard if you don't have a talent for violence. However, the fact that she was indeed Zeus' body guard was concerning. Who'd to say which way she would swing when it mattered most? Prometheus' ambitions were bound to make him clash with the other Olympians sooner or later, and he didn't need to end up with Nemesis' dagger in his back.

He stood there for a moment, taking a slow drawn out drag from his cigarette at his leisure.

Options. Possibilities. Outcomes.

Risks. Rewards. Rivalries.

Wins. Losses. Deaths.

It was a lot to consider. Taking her offer didn't seem like a big deal now, but what of the future? Where would it lead? Would he regret it all, or would he profit from the partnership?

"I don't want your blade." He finally said, locking eyes with her. He was hard. Always hard. His face and eyes would betray nothing. A man of knowledge is a man of secrets. Prometheus' secrets were his and his alone.

"I want your oath." He followed up with as he took a few steps closer to her. "Swear by everything you hold close, swear by your name, by your legacy, by your creed. Swear fidelity to me." Prometheus spoke. Though he spoke in a normal tone, he was issuing a demand. Nonnegotiable.

"I don't require you serve me like a slave. I won't even require you serve at all...But I expect you to be there when I call. Without question. Without hesitation." He went on. The way he looked at her, it was like he was trying to see into her soul. He wanted vindications. Proof of character. If She wanted him to help solve her little murder, Prometheus wanted to ensure he wouldn't end up getting stabbed in the back.

And if she wavered?

Well. Prometheus was a champion of man. The Olympians could be damned to an eternity of nothingness. He'd happily escort them there.

BELIAL. BELIAL.
 
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IN APHRODITE's OFFICE

The man... His father. He would be remiss in denying his dislike for the oaf. He lumbered in here and paraded himself around like he meant anything... when... despite himself... he was little more than the cock of the day.

Ignoring the man and his looks, Eros drank as Ares spoke to his mother, saying his goodbyes. Even the kiss... As he left her, Eros nearly felt bile rise with his drink. Love? That is what he thought it was. It was wafting off him like an odor. And he felt that... shade of it so keenly. Enough to delude himself into thinking he was special.

And his mother as always exploited that fully. With her tiresome tirade of tipsy titillation. He had never understood it. The fascination she had over the men and women at her beck and call. It was all so... vacuous. Meaningless pleasure for pleasure's sake. The kind of thing you imagined a mortal might do... while... young... and foolish.

He rolled his eyes, taking another drink as the door closed.

He was overthinking it again. And it was getting irritating.

As if he could know what was foolish and what was no. His eyes returned to her, as she fixed herself.

She was beautiful. She had always been beautiful. But unlike anyone else in this or any world... Eros could see past it. Smell it. Taste it upon the air. Hear it radiating from her soul. It was not love. It was the promise of love with all the intent of breaking said promise. It was stealing the innocence of hope to love, and exploiting to for no more reason than boredom. Or the desire for touch. Or power. Ir was primal. Animalistic. And to him... it spoiled her. It ruined her.

She was a ruined woman. All the potential and desire to be happy. And she would never be. She would always create her own pain. And never learn from it.

Sometimes he wondered if he stayed with her because of love or pity. Sometimes it did not feel like love. But... she was his mother. And she needed him. And while she may not understand what loyalty was. He did.

"Will Hephaestus be at this party?" His eyes turned on her. The accusation was there. She refused to leave the man. She tortured him for his love. Eros would never approve. He let the tone hang in the air. Normally he did not get irate. Ares being here did not help though. At least his brothers were not here.

"What will be the tactic then... tonight?" It was an old game. And they were alone. She needn't play her games with him. Even though she would. She did not have to play along. "You have an end state you would prefer. Poseidon is going to take the throne? Or imply it should be given to him. There will be uproar. And then eventually we go back to whatever it was were were doing before." He took another sip. To think... at one point he kinda enjoyed this kind of thing. "What is your win condition?"

He sighed loudly, feeling the will leave him.

Part of him wanted to go down there and fix what he had so willingly broken not an hour ago.

Hera would kill him.

"What horse are we backing? Does Hera have a stake in this? Are you going to rise to queen of the gods?" Another roll of his eyes. "Give me my motivation, so I can perfect my act." Another sigh. "I will need rest before we go."

..............................

BELIAL. BELIAL. - HERA
mention idalie idalie - ARES
 

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[ Ambiance ]



Olympus was silent.
Not entirely, but as silent as she’d ever seen it. Heard it. She stormed down a hallway, red heels clicking, the walls wallpapered with golden leather. Tacky even for her mother. She finally stopped when she got to an equally gold elevator and a dark mahogany security desk occupied by Hera’s oafs - Kleon and Kosmos. She looked at them as she stood outside the elevator. They stared at her with their scrutiny. Eris stuck up her middle finger, justly giving it to them, before she twirled it towards the ‘down’ button. Pressing it. The elevator opened immediately -
Finally allowing her leave of this fucking place.
Or at least leave of this mountain’s peak.
She had… other places here to go.
Siblings to pay visit.


Hell awaited her.


Not her uncle’s abode, of course. Olympus’ hell. The basement’s basement. Hephaestus’ workshop. His forge, equally equipped with the same spitting pits of fire that one would find in a bible’s hell. A Christian’s worst nightmare was her brother’s home. His prison, even. The elevator slid down its shaft - faster and faster. The insides of it were part gold and part mirror. She stared into one, fixing her hair. Tucking a blonde strand behind an ear. She… felt it. Behind her ear. A small crack of the skin. “Motherfucker.” She cursed.
Literally.
Her annoyance at Hera had caused this, no doubt. It would heal in due time. Eris just had to make sure that she didn’t overexert herself any further today. A hard task for one surrounded by imbeciles. The elevator came to a halt. With a chirpy ding accompanying said halt. Before the doors even opened she felt it. The heat. Smouldering and almost suffocating.
She wondered how he could live down here. In this discomfort. It was uncomfortable for her, but Heph always seemed to love it. His love for it - sickened her. Sickened Eris. If Heph had hated it down here then maybe it would bring her some semblance of joy.
The doors opened.
Unleashing Strife upon this place.

Work must’ve finished.

At least it looked that way.

Her brother’s little minions scurried around, cleaning things up. Some stood still. Not moving. Lifeless. Sleeping? Business may’ve been completed but the fires still burned. The heat still insufferable. She took a simple breath, trying to remain unbothered by it. But taking a breath down here was like sipping from a chalice of radiation. “Ugh.”
She sounded.
In her disgust.
She spied a small automaton, carrying some metal in his… hands? Claws? She didn’t know the correct terminology. She didn’t care. If The Elysians were low and The Creatures were lower than low - then what were these puddles of scrap worth?
Less than nothing.
Less than low.
“You.” Eris pointed at the one carrying supplies.
It stopped.
Shaken by her call.
“Where is Heph-” She stopped. She rolled her eyes. “Where is your… master?” She folded her arms and looked down at it. At this little thing. A rotary phone had more use, she was sure. The shiny creature looked in the direction of Hephaestus’ bedroom quarters. It blinked once. It blinked twice. Communicating with her.
She nodded.
She walked.
Not thanking it.
Heels continuing to click.

Her brother’s bedroom reeked of desperation and of sweat. Of body odour. Of tears. Of a sexless existence - one where he had a wife to call his and yet his hand gave him the more pleasure. The smell, while disgusting and revolting and vile, gave her pleasure. It was a smell of misfortune. Something she loved to bask in. She spotted him, almost naked.
Nothing she hadn’t seen before. She had grown up with this deformity. Her and Hebe, when younger, used to sit and laugh at him whenever they would go swimming in the pool at their uncle’s villa. Times were never simpler for a God,
Yet those times seemed so much so.

She put out her hand.
And closed her eyes for a second. Conjuring up her gift for him, before approaching him.

“My sweet brother. Is this a bad time?”
She asked, not so much as a knock this time to grab his attention. Only her mother got a knock - and that was simply because she hated them. “But do not worry, Hephy. The worse the time the better, of course.”
Her heels clicked more.
Walking closer and closer towards her. The closer she got, the viler the stench. The viler the view. She clutched the gift that she held tightly before she swung it his way. Tossing it up into the air and passing it to him, like one would pass a ball or a set of keys.
“Hungry?”
She asked, as he caught the golden apple in his own grasp.
“It’s no Aphrodite, but it’s almost as beautiful. Maybe a bit tastier? I’d imagine you’ve been working all night without food and without drink. Maybe some bourbon to accompany it?” She looked around the room. Trying to see if he had a bar. A tray of drinks even.
She found nothing.
This place had begun to feel more and more monstrous.
“Go ahead.”
She urged him.
“Take a bite, for Christ sake. It’s not fucking poisoned.” Her eyes peered into his. A small smirk upon her lips. She felt the behind of her ear again, checking to see if the crack had decreased in its size. It had not.

She broke her gaze away from him and turned around, spotting a small lounge chair with a well-crafted coffee table in front of it. She walked towards the seat and sat down. She laid back in it, and placed her heels on top of the table. She needed a bit of relaxation. It had been a long night. A stressful night, followed by an equally stressful morning. Eris gave her brother a glance once more,
“I hope you do not intend to go to our uncle’s place dressed like… that.” She spoke. “Fashion was never your thing, sure. But I won’t lie to you… I expected better, Hephy.”
She stopped.
She let loose a short cackle.
“Who am I kidding? That was certainly a lie.” She closed her eyes for a moment. Another apple, identical to the one she’d passed to her brother, appeared in her hand. She took a bite. Crunchy and sweet. She elegantly chewed it, mushing the fruit into little bits.
Before she swallowed.
“So how have you been faring?” She asked, seriously. “With… everything?” He knew what she meant. Their father was dead. Brutally beaten and dismembered and murdered. It had happened and yet Eris felt as if no one had yet to fully acknowledge it. Zeus had so many children, none of which seemed to care.
Eris cared.
In the way a figure of chaos could care.
He was her father. She had loved him dearly. She felt a lot of things for him. His death had brought confusion and panic to Night City - which was something she was elated for. But her father was still a corpse. Their father. “When was the last time you saw him? Before he died, I mean. I doubt he… came down here much.”

Eris’ words were always laced with harshness.
Even if she didn’t mean it.

She took another bite of the apple.












 
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APHRODITE, goddess of sex + desire
location: the golden apple mention: TYPE TYPE (eros) idalie idalie
She lingered for the casual kiss of Ares, wishing dread upon the day for estranging them. When they were together, she loved him. She loved him. He was everything bold and brash and just crazy enough to match her own devilish intent. Besides, Ares was not as replaceable as most of the other gods. Norse, Greek, Egyptian, even the god damn low-life Celts; they couldn't hold a candle to the war-crimes that Ares had committed. In her name. He killed for her, more than once, and red was the woman's favourite colour for a reason. Lust. Sex. Blood. Not one for murder herself, living vicariously through her killer lover was substitute enough. Hell, even the twins she'd birthed with him gave her enough of that dread and anxiety; twinged with a murderous type of power.

She wouldn't admit it, but she liked a bit of trouble. A little bit of war.

Hence her insatiable lust for Ares.

He left swiftly and her attention turned to Eros. Favourite child and constant axe in the back. There was too much morality in him. His type of love was so pure, and so sensitive, that it turned him into quite the soft prick. Yet he had an illustrious service, and he had his magic, and she cared to keep him around. Plus, it was fun to have someone nearly your equal in wit.

Checking her reflection in the mirror, and fixing some of the lipstick that had smeared over her lip, she nearly smashed it when she heard Eros ask, "Will Hephaestus be at this party?" Catching herself staring, a red hot glare punching back at herself in the mirror, she quickly smoothed it into a careless smile. There was something about the oaf's name, some inkling of guilt that coloured her perfect skin a dark blue, that made her skin crawl. Her heart stop. She pitied herself for getting so emotionally invested in her most loyal of slaves, but most of all she loathed how protective she was over him. She had no love in her heart for the fool, as feeble as he was. His pathetic whining only made her lips curl into a sneer. But as per the goddess' desires, she adored being adored. He wouldn't leave her, he hadn't left her. She was determined to keep it that way.

"Oh, don't mention that name in my presence. I gain a fuckin' wrinkle every second I have to think about the old cod," she sighed, before removing the mirror and glaring at Eros. "Of course he'll be there. I'm going to be there. He likes to grovel and watch me shake my tits at the family. I'll be damned in Tartarus if he ever had the gall to do something actual about it-- not just strip a net over me." Aphrodite pursed her lips back in the mirror, reaching for her lipstick and reapplying it. A quick swipe and a pucker.

Eros asked about her intentions for the night, going into much detail of how strenuous it would be for him, and she audibly dragged out a sigh. Slapping the handheld mirror down and striding to the other side of the desk, she leaned back against it. "You don't have to worry your pretty, winged little head about it tonight. We play it cool. If I know Poseidon like I know Poseidon, it's going to be some show of power. He wants the throne, of course he does. He's not a fuckin' idiot. But we deserve it, darling. Don't you agree? Can't you imagine?" She asked, rushing forward to catch his face in her hands. She pulled him to his feet and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Leaning into his ear, she flicked wicked words, "Imagine their faces. Taking the power from all of them, alone, is a better gift than Olympus itself. To prove that love, above all, conquers all. Literally. A Night City we make."

She pulled back, giving him a sweet smile. "You're due a promotion anyway, kiddo. This is it. But for now, we play it cool. We go under the radar, gaining allies. Power. Some initiative, to rally the gods on our side." Aphrodite walked back to her desk, noting that her cell-phone half-buried beneath some papers was lighting up. She ignored it, for now. She sat at her desk, smoothing out the space in front of her, and then balanced her chin on her interlaced fingers.

"Go take your nap, sweetheart. I'll get us a limo at half till dusk. Wear your best."
 
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NEMESIS, goddess of retribution
location: night city streets mention: High5ives High5ives
So all he wanted was her oath. Her loyalty. A small feat but a deep-seated one too. Nemesis was loyal to the gods, all gods. Zeus had been the focus of her protection for a long time now. Hera had bought her time for a bit as well, but the bitch was something else. Once upon a time Nemesis didn't have to worry about inter-war between gods, and killing gods for the sake of gods. It was about punishing mortals, and dealing them their justice. An equal amount of good and bad. A warning against hubris. Now, things were interesting.

To be loyal to the god who perhaps hates Zeus the most. A funny twist of fate.

But Nemesis did not look a gift horse in the mouth.

"Fine. No skin off my back. But my vow is my word, and that's unbreakable. Don't think for a moment that because I'm loyal, you're free to flit as you please," she said through gritted teeth. It wasn't as if she didn't trust Prometheus, but she didn't completely trust him either. If she could break him, she would. If he fucked things up, and her investigation went awry because of him, there'd be hell to pay.

She switched her hands to extend her right one, reaching to clasp his right wrist. Her left was her blade. Her right was her oath.

"It's a deal then." She stared at him hard, with the same mechanical eyes that stared back. A smile found her lips and she released the tight grip on his arm. Pulling out a tablet type phone, she punched in a few details.

"Poseidon has a party tonight. You're going I assume? I can do a good job of slinking in the background if we both grease a few palms. My main concern right now is where Zeus' thunderbolt is. As far as I... know, it's missing. Who holds the thunderbolt no doubt killed him, and who holds the thunderbolt is a lot more powerful than you or I could even fathom.

"If we make a stunning appearance, you do your show and I do mine, hopefully we can round up some answers of main contenders to Zeus' murder. If someone killed him, they wouldn't shy away from showing up. To gloat, verbally or physically," Nemesis grimaced, twisting her mouth around her teeth. The last thing she wanted to do was celebrate at an event with her father dead, and her uncle claiming his right to the Olympian throne. It was a shame how predictable the man was. There were so many gods in Night City... it would make sense that someone wanted to gut the Greeks before they got rusty on the seat.

 
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A storm raged for two days after Zeus died. A lightning storm, unparalleled to his usual tantrums, ravaged the skies. Rain had pelted the streets of Night City, a surge of energy whipping the nightlife into a temporary dark slate. That was when Poseidon knew his brother was dead.

The fact that it wasn’t Zeus’ usual lightning fit, a storm or two to showcase his annoyance or anger, immediately made Poseidon’s gut sink like a lead weight. He grieved before he even knew the god was dead. He hated his brother, but the foreboding dread that washed over Night City plagued Poseidon as well.

He stood at the edge of his property, 10 hours after the death, two hours after Zeus’ body was found, and let the sea rage. The salt walter licked at his face, stinging the skin a bashful red. A stomach churning whirlpool had opened up in the distance, and Poseidon watched the waves beat against themselves. His hair was wet, his clothes were wet. His face was wet.

It was a hard thing to believe for the Olympian. Sure, the regular family squabbles had made Poseidon want to wring the man’s neck more than once. All things considered they felt more like business associates than family, most of the time. But it was only after feeling the loss of Zeus, and his release to the void, that he realized how sorely he had underestimated his love for the brute.

His wife joined him, perhaps noticing the peculiar shade of brooding that Poseidon was doing (along with the storm he had churned within the sea). He clutched her tightly, burying his face into her hair and relishing in her smell. Her warmth. Her stability. She was steadfast where he was an ever moving stream; a current of tumultuous ambition and rage. With her he could breathe, he could think clearly.

And yet, a wicked premonition spiked the sea-lord’s mind. While the wind of a sea-storm battered his hair against his face and stung his eyes, inner machinations began to churn. For years he had longed for a chance of supreme power, no longer just a pawn ‘neath Zeus’ thumb. Poseidon had the sea, but he aspired to rule the land as well. This would be the chance, as it were.

He would have to be strong, and wear a face of bravado. The mystery behind Zeus’ death he hid behind rocks and seaweed, unwilling to fully confront the truth. The King of the Gods was dead. That was simply it. Times were changing, Earth was turning toward Year 0. Poseidon would have to take full control of the spinning globe. It was only right.


-


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He organized a party, both in remembrance of Zeus and as well to unofficially declare his vy for the throne. He anticipated pushback, but in due time he figured that denizens of Night City, and surrounding communities would concede. Poseidon offered not a totalitarian rule, but merely a revamping of the entire industry.

The Maritime, his elaborate abode at the land’s end, was decorated to the teeth. Pearls and hanging lights strewn about, casting the interior with a hazy glow. How garish it would be to bathe his classical residence in neon lights, so he opted for minimal tones and hymns of blue and green. An oceanic gaze on land. His vision for the future.

The foyer opened up to a large staircase to the upper levels and broke off at the main floor to several rooms and doorways. A living room, casual and minimalist was straight of the door and parallel to the stairs. To the left and right were drawing rooms, one with a grand piano and one with an elaborate aquarium. It encircled the entire room, and looked closer to a smoking room. The lights were darker in here. Cooler.

Off the living room was the giant kitchen, where servants chopped and dished out food on serving platters. They were dressed as professional as possible for mermen and mermaids. Their translucent, brightly pigmented skin jumped out against their black and white uniforms. They bore sharp teeth but silky voices. Long, flowing hair. There were 20 in total, to accommodate the sheer number of guests that would arrive at The Maritime.

Poseidon was less than pleased at how many people would be arriving. He was a control freak, to put it plainly. He hated his space invaded, particularly with the gross secondary citizens of Night City. He shivered at the thought of a Minotaur stomping on his plush, shag rugs. Perish the thought of a drunken pixie knocking over one of his Tiffany lamps. Yet, he stuffed it all down in his suit and tie and put a smile on. His movement was about everyone, not just the Greeks. It was important to make that apparent.

He smoked a fat cigar, pulling at his tie in the mirror. This was moments before the first of the guests would be arriving. His wife was in the background, getting ready herself. Puffing out a whisp of smoke, Poseidon whirled around. He bore his teeth like a shark, smiling at the goddess-queen. She indeed shined more bright than a thousand stars, and was more beautiful than a hundred nymphs.

“You look beautiful. If I don’t pull this off, at least they’ll be in awe of your beauty. Aphrodite herself may tremble at your sight,” he said and scooped her knuckles in one hand. Pulling the cigar out he pressed a gentle kiss to her hand. He gave her a squeeze, then continued to puff anxiously at the cigar.

“This won’t go well. I’m entirely fucking sure of it, given the company arriving. But they’re fools, aren’t they? Idiots to think that Night City should remain as it is, a dirty napkin of a paradise.” Poseidon snorted out a laugh, chewing at the paper filter. The more he spoke now, the better.

“Stand by me, would you? During my speech. I… I’ll need a buoy in this shitstorm.”


-
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The party started, and the estate began to fill with visitors. Creatures, gods, goddesses and folk-heroes alike. Poseidon smiled graciously, thanking as many as he could for coming. He let the party mingle for an hour or so before taking a stand, off by the wide bay windows of the living room, and clinked his drink loudly. “Ladies, gentleman, denizens, I thank you for your patronage!” He spoke louder, a booming voice to echo across the rooms. Catching their attention.

He sweat a drop beneath his suit, but his smile did not betray him. “I would like to toast, in honour of my late brother. Zeus ruled us with an iron fist, and leaves an even bigger impact now that he is gone. I throw this party to celebrate, but to celebrate as a god like Zeus would want us to. Where, once there was darkness, a light now ascends Night City again. A new day.” He let a moment of silence ripple through, the crowd-- if they so chose-- sipping their ambrosia or wine or sparkling cucumber water with remembrance. Before the event could continue again, Poseidon began to speak again:

“I would also like to toast to this new tomorrow, and volunteer myself to lead us into this new era. Year 0 approaches, and as we all know things will grow difficult up here. Belief will fade below, technology will prevail, and we will be tempted to oblivion. But I offer myself to lead us into that knowing future with a strength, newfound and as sturdy as Zeus had. I offer you, all gods of all pantheons, and creatures alike, some security. My future for Night City offers a roman leadership, clean and represented.”

The last thing he wanted, thinking absently, was a continuation of the gaudy neon that Zeus had strewn the city up in. That would change. There would be plenty of changes. But for now...

Cue the signature grin. He thanked himself for not stumbling over his words, but he knew better than to doubt his own strength. He was a leader, he knew this. He was the likely choice for Night City’s reigning King.

He raised his glass, exchanging hard glances with those he knew would pick a fight immediately. But his smile never faded.




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VĂ­Ă°arr

The greatest story ever told is this...
Time is a construct which the humans devised and it rules over them only because they allow it.
He thought that laughable. A fool's belief. A beautiful lie wished up by those hoping beyond hope to evade that which is inescapable. In all his being, he'd never seen a beginning without an end, a baby born which does not die. Time needs no marker to make its presence felt. It is a truth, a god of its own. Unlike the Elysian deities, it did not need to be realized to have an affect, to wield its power over anything less than itself, which was everything.

Zeus had thought himself above time, infinite and indomitable. He'd sat so high in his castle, his head in the clouds, that he'd forgotten these truths. He'd made himself another tragic, greek clichĂŠ, beaten by his own hubris. Perhaps he'd thought that, because his father was fortunate enough to brandish some small part of it, that he was immune to time. Vidar wondered if he'd even try rethinking that if given another chance.

He suspected Zeus would only shake his head and say time got lucky.

Slouched in the backseat of a limousine, Vidar cast a long look through the window. Dreadful decay even in the hands of the almighty, Night City stood no better than the worst city on Earth. Dolled up in color, it pulsed a neon glow, illuminated garbage still stinking and cruel. The gods may pretend they presided over a heaven, but Vidar had yet to see the good of it. Heaven was a place of miracles and just beings. What ruled here had somehow managed to slither up from the bowels of a long and hungry beast.

The only pride he took in it were those things which stood before, the sky and the ocean, the winds and the dirt. They were creations of an altogether different king, one who might've remembered his place.

The further they got from the city, the more comfortable he sat.

Tracing the paths two ravens took over his window with one fingernail, Vidar took another pull from a bottle of mead. The honeyed brew sloshed about his mouth without taste, without purpose. It did little to numb the senses or dispel thoughts he ached to rid himself of. He'd drank himself into oblivion like his father long before even RagnarĂśk. The only thing which kept him drinking now was the habit, the motion. If he didn't have this, he'd simply sit still and empty, the closest thing to dead without being it.

"We're here."

The driver, a draugr, had rolled down the divider and now stared at him from the rearview mirror. His voice was gargled and wet, the skin around his mouth taught, the bones underneath well-defined. Waving a finger at him, Vidar tried his best to direct the undead creature's attention back to the road. The creature's glowing eyes flickered back and forth.

"Should I park or pull around to the front?"

Pressing his forehead against the window, Vidar shut his eyes.

"Should I-"

Sitting up suddenly, Vidar moved to sit by the divider. Undead and stupid, he couldn't understand the use his kind still found in these creatures. Pointing through the divider and towards the windshield, he provided the draugr a little direction.

. . .

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"Where, once there was darkness..."

He only heard what he wanted to. This was an old speech, one uttered in the passing of many kings, not just Zeus. He found it surprising how alike their kinds were, the humans and the gods, how predictable the two had become. As hard as the gods tried to distance themselves, as much as they wanted to believe they were better, Vidar found little difference... At least in the ways that mattered.

"...A light now ascends Night City again. A new day."

As Poseidon paused to let the others sip at their beverages, Vidar raised a glass of wine into the air in agreeance. Bringing it to his lips, he faintly smiled down at the liquid in thought before taking a drink.

As hard as he tried to focus, he couldn't keep the rest of Poseidon's words from running together. Instead, he let his eyes wander, scouring the rest of the crowd for potential challengers. He hadn't come here for empty promises and false hopes. He was only interested the names of those willing to step forward and lay claim to the now vacant throne. He'd also come to make an appearance himself, not as a contender for the throne, but as a sort of statement and silent reminder that the Norsemen still stood strong. Enduring, his father had once said, of what was inevitable for all god-kind.

Had a Norseman not made an appearance... That would be suspecting. It might allude to things, darker happenings and mysterious misfortune. Things Vidar would rather others not think when pondering the Norse gods' condition.

Tossing back the rest of his wine, he set the cup on a servant's passing tray, and as Poseidon brought his speech to an end, Vidar looked around for a place to sit. Presumably, this would be the first of many speeches to come, and he was not about to stand through them all.
 
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Going to a party full of gods and lesser mythical beings was about as pleasant as trying to bath in a tub of tar, only at least the tar wouldn't try and make small talk. Normally, Prometheus wasn't one to attend parties. He wasn't the type to enjoy drinks and laughs, he was too serious for it. However, the need had arose. Anyone with half a brain had to have known exactly what this party was intended for. So soon after Zeus' death and Poseidon was throwing a huge gathering? A place where every important being in Night City would be? Poseidon was making a move, that much was clear. Prometheus was sure The Sea God would try and take charge now. Greedy as ever.

So there he was, standing off to the side. Observing. Sharp eyes watched the assortment of Gods and Goddesses, Fouths and Faeries, even the occasional self indulgent Elysian. All of them so self absorbed. Enjoying their time, basking in Poseidon's wealth. Who could blame them? Most would never see a party like this again. Sure, most Gods had more than enough money and power to play around a little, but Poseidon's manor was a thing all its own.

Poseidon's toast couldn't have come soon enough. The sooner He said whatever he was going to say, the sooner Prometheus could be done with this. The beginning of the toast wasn't worth much attention. Party for Zeus, blah blah blah. It was really just a formality, an introduction to what Poseidon really wanted to say.

“I would also like to toast to this new tomorrow, and volunteer myself to lead us into this new era..."

That was a pleasant way of putting it. Made him sound more like a public servant than the Dictator he was bound to become. He could flash his smiles and make his promises, but Prometheus wouldn't buy it. Poseidon wanted the title and the power that came with ruling over the gods. It was just a matter of pride, like the extravagant manor the party was held in. The Throne of Mount Olympus was just another thing to boost Poseidon's ego. As if it needed any help.

So when Poseidon raised his glass, calling for a toast. A toast to his rule, Prometheus made a show of standing up from his chair and dropping his glass to the ground. Standing still as it shattered, echoing in the tense silence of the room...

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With the party's attention now, stolen away from Poseidon with little more than a broken glass, Prometheus made no apologies. A shattered cup was going to be the least of his offences tonight.

"Strange how quickly something can fracture and break apart, hm?" Prometheus spoke in a soothing tone, locking eyes with Poseidon as the words danced off his lips. Calm voice, but with just enough edge to be unnerving.

Prometheus slowly began to stride forward, taking his time to gather his thoughts. Confidence flowed from him like souls pouring into the underworld. He had faced Cronus. He had faced Zeus. He had faced Oblivion.

Poseidon and his tantrums were nothing. Not worth an ounce of fear.

"You tell me right now, by what right do you propose to sit on Olympus' throne?" Prometheus challenged. No. He demanded. "Tell us all why you deserve even a moments thought. And don't try claiming birthrights or lineage, I'll have none of it, and I suspect no one else will either." He went on.


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He came to lazily lean up against one of the bar counters, never taking his intense stare off The God of the Seas. Jaw tight. Brows firm, but body as relaxed as if he were drinking with a few old pals. Prometheus would speak again before he'd allowe Poseidon to recover from what was surely a shock at this point. It's not often you get called out in front of all the gods across all the Pantheons...

"Zeus had his courage, unending when he fought the Titans...Cronus had his power, wielded like a forging hammer to bend all to his will like we were little more than hot steel...Hades, cunning and sharp, one step ahead...Hera has her wisdom, guiding Zeus with a gentle hand in a way no one else could..." Prometheus let his words hang in the air just long enough for them to sink in. He wanted every word to hit home. "I could go on Poseidon, but I won't. My point is clear. So I will ask again. By what right do you dare to claim the throne? Right of power? So you can be like the tyrants your brother fought to put away? We all know you don't claim the throne by right of your intellect, otherwise you wouldn't have made your claim here. At a party meant to Honor Zeus. Have you no shame?"

Prometheus laughed softly and shook his head like he'd made a joke. "Of course you don't..." He said with a cocky smile.

Then he spat the words.


"You. Have. Nothing."

Prometheus spat the words like they vinegar in his mouth. He spoke them with a vengeance, like they'd bitten his tongue. The Forethinker said each word like he was throwing it to the ground and grinding it and grinding it to the dirt.

"Nothing." He repeated. "No courage to shield us. No power to build a way ahead. No Wisdom to guide us through the future. The only thing you don't lack is a temper, Poseidon. God of the Sea, but known for earthquakes and storms. You don't rule with tantrums. You can't lead with fits of anger. I'm sure you're going to get up and strike me down, won't you? Prove me right?"

Prometheus stopped talking to lean forward, leaning in Poseidon's direction.

"Well you go right ahead. I think if any of you had the power to kill a Titan, there wouldn't be half a dozen of them sitting in Tartuarus..."

"Strike at the Forethinker. But make it good."
 
Before the Party
Hephaestus' Forge


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He stared at the phone. Half expecting it to begin ringing and vibrating. But he knew it wasn’t, it was less expectation and more hope, misplaced and futile hope. It would have been easy to fall into another spiral, a meandering journey of malaise and self pity leading to who knows where. However there was nothing like a storm to blow away such thoughts quickly. And Eris was a veritable hurricane of chaotic high winds and blustery showers. Of course he didn’t get a knock, wasn’t really her style, subtlety and forewarning definitely didn’t appear in her dictionary. He leapt up, wrapping the robe tightly around himself and fumbling with the tie. Paying extra care to sweep the bottom of it around his twisted right leg.

“Bloody hell Eris, you could at least knock or give me some sort of warning,”

Was it a bad time? She bloody well knew the answer, it was why she was here. Whilst it was true that chaos and strife followed Eris like an enveloping cloak, she also had the bloodhound like ability to sniff out, and then apply just the right amount of pressure to make an uncomfortable situation damn right painful. She wanted you to get angry, to snap and rage.

He snatched the apple out of the air, seeing his own warped reflection in its polished surface. Twisted and monstrous, a true reflection of self. He leaned against his cane, and flicked Eris a withering look, his eyebrow raised.

“Reverting back to old tried and tested methods here Eris. Pretty sure this was old by the second time the Trojan war rocked around. In danger of going stale,”

Eris had always been an odd one. Even now beneath the taunting and quips, there was a love there, not that she’d ever admit it of course, she’d sooner gouge your eyes out. Despite the barbed hook the apple was something of a peace offering. He returned the smirk, and bit into the apple. First piece of fresh food he’d had in days. Gods didn’t need to strictly eat to survive, but imbibing nothing but inebriating liquids for the best part of a week certainly didn’t help with maintaining one’s godlike visage. He flopped back into the opposite lounge chair, he let out a sigh and rubbed at his eyes.

“I think I’ll skip the bourbon, I’ve raided enough of Dionysus’ stocks already. Despite the unlimited supply I’m sure he’s going to notice at some point,” He flicked his head towards the suit hung in the corner. “That’ll do I suppose. Mother would probably prefer I just stay down here, less ways of embarrassing her with my mere presence, good news all round. I don’t make a tit of myself and she has her perfect family,”

He took a large bite out of the apple, juice running down from the corner of his lips. He glanced about the wreck of a room before looking back at Eris.

“I wouldn’t say that I’ve exactly been faring brilliantly, But given the fact that I’m in a crumbling marriage, my father has just been murdered, and I’m living in my parent’s basement, I’d say all things considering I’m probably doing alright,”

When was the last time they had seen each other… Now there was a question. She was right, Zeus rarely forayed this deep, unless he was after something made of course. Deciphering the relationship between Heph and his parents could have kept a therapist in work for several lifetimes. Banishment, neglect, horror at their imperfect child. But Heph still loved them, as much as at times he wished he could tell them how much pain and hurt had been caused, his very heart aching. But to do that would be to cause a stir, to rock the boat, to put into jeopardy the scraps of parental affection that were occasionally thrown his way, enough to satiate, if not enough to be full.

He looked up at Eris. They were all broken in their own way, Zeus’ children. Their fatal flaws and cracks lying beneath the facades. And now he’d played his last cruel trick, and left them all to scrabble, their worlds shattered as the one looming constant was removed. He ignored the jab thrown his way.

“Must have been a couple of weeks before… well before. Surprised me in the workshop, he was after a favour. Not that I minded, was just nice for him to come to me, even if it was just because he wanted something in return,” He let out a snort of laughter, and looked up at Eris. His eyes were glistening slightly. “He really was a shit wasn’t he. I mean if we were handing out prizes for fathers of the year, he’d be pretty low. Missed birthdays, self absorbed, the affairs, bloody hell the affairs, I’m surprised Mum didn’t murder him centuries ago. But despite all that he was still Dad you know, life of the party, the big cheese, the supporting wall, all of it. And now...Poof. Gone,” He shook his head and pushed himself up, heading towards the wardrobe, he pulled open the door and withdrew a half empty bottle of Port.

“Liberated this from Dionysus’ stock, if you want a glass you’ll have to conjure one up. I haven’t felt like making anything in days,”

(Interaction: TheFool TheFool )
 
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Ares - God of War & Battlelust
Location: Poseidon's Mansion
Mentions: I dunno!

Lounging on the railings outside a shop front to finish his cigarette, the God of War was joined by a seated vagabond looking for work. Ares’ vision distracted by the rising tower of glass and metal that made Olympus disappear into the clouds.

“Thinkin’ of an empty throne?” The soft Irish lilt questioned, guitar slung across his lap. Ares glanced down, then away again,
“Thinking of the corpse that was on it,” He muttered, lip curling in contempt.

“It’s a shame,” The vagabond’s smile was faint, plucking the strings of his instrument, “You should make peace with it.”

Ares moved, throwing the cig butt to grind beneath his heel in a twist of sparks, “Peace.” His laugh a few, short barks of amusement, “What’s this? An intervention scheme?” The tramp threw his shoulders up in a shrug.

“Got a smoke?”

The Warlord scoffed, turning his back.

Walking home was one of the few things Ares liked taking his time with, watching city lights blink and people hurry. It brought back fond memories of Greece. The colourful cities, painted reds and golds, art that celebrated the Gods lounging from on high. The bustle of markets and streets was continuous, hectic, a battle in itself for a war that was never won.

In a not so distant past, he had fought among mortal men dressed in only their visceral remains. With a blade, you were close. Staring them in the eyes as they murmured sweet and enduring farewells. He had been a man of Spartan legacies, now a tricky businessman with a penchant for violence. Ares wanted more. Was that not in the making of a God of War?

The older he was, the more he found himself looking back. A youth misspent, dabbling in human concerns with the rest of his family. Since when had they retreated?

At the end of the day, Ares still had to see all of them. Poseidon's party. He’d make sure to wear his second best.

***​

The party felt like one large celebration of sodomising Zeus’ rule, his body barely cold and already they were holding flutes of champagne. Ares meandered through the gossipers, past the admirers and slyly listened for open invitations to private thoughts. There was some small ounce of temptation to seek out Aphrodite, for once his better judgement prevailing which led him instead to encounter his daughter.

Harmonia, in Ares' eyes, would always be far more beautiful than her mother. Her face was soft, her curves slight and willowy, eyes as brilliant as her parentage. If Aphrodite be a rose, then Harmonia would be a daisy. But she was his. Full of goodness and balance, the product of love. Ares had been in awe to hold something as small and sweet as Harmony. To have helped make something so completely opposite of his nature.

She beamed at his presence, Ares offering a crooked grin in return. Just about as together as the rest of him was.

“Dad! I didn’t think you’d come, not exactly friends with uncle are you?” She tipped her head to the side, before throwing her arm through his to link them.

“Hello to you too, poppet.” Ares remarked, arching his brows at her enthusiasm, “feels like you’re about to lead me around a nursing home.”

Harmonia rolled her eyes, “You should be in one,”

“Since when have you started talking back?”

Laughing, she patted him on the shoulder, “Don’t worry,” The goddess looked at him, sadder this time. “You’re here because of mum, right?”

Ares shook his head, “No, no it’s not like that, I’m here because my father - is dead. Your grandfather is dead.”

She withdrew herself and played with the rings on her fingers, “You couldn’t care less if he died again today, I know that. Just - at least tell me the truth. It’s not fair, not on Hephaestus.”

The God of War tensed, “Don’t tell me it’s unfair when Zeus chose that thing for her, barely a man. Have they even consummated it? Speak to me of that, speak to me of how beneath that limp, he is a foe. Not just some unlucky, unfinished creation of Hera’s making.”

Harmonia’s face twisted upsettingly, “I’m not having this argument,” Turning away with a hand raised to beckon to someone else. Ares bit his tongue, unrelenting in his stance to apologise but never one to admit he was wrong first.

The toast couldn’t come quick enough.

Frozen for the duration of the speech, the night's grand event which was somewhat overshadowed by his familial dispute. Words were spoken, none of which Ares paid much attention to. He caught the end, the part which mattered and from there, Prometheus stole the limelight.

The uppity titan was harsh, but Ares could feel the building animosity. Poseidon's animal grin remained, frozen in place. At last, something worth his attention. A little melodrama. Where were the rest of this thrones mighty contenders?
 

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