Happiness Transplant
Intimidating and a bit insane...
Light a candle
Clap three times fast
You will summon the high brow spazz
Steel yourself and call him Jazz
As for gender, they are trans
He/they pronouns are a blast
Do you care or dare to dance
A dance of words, a dance of class
A dance with someone who’s mind is mad
Sleep, it’s waning
But no complaining
As a writer, he’s amazing
Often rhymes when he’s campaigning
‘Till they find the rhymes are fading
The cat—it screeches,
Wants some treats and
Don’t you find yourself intrigued
And don’t you want to dance with me?
[m i c d r o p]
Alrighty everybody—grab some snacks and strap yourselves in ‘cause this is a long one.
I can come across quite snooty because I have ultimate confidence in my godly roleplaying skill. I’ve earned it, okay? I can look back and cringe at my old stuff, but it’s been 12 years now, so I’ve got this shit on lock.
That said, don’t be intimidated. I’m harmless. Extremely chill. Not actually snooty.
….just good.
:p
Expect casual OOC and godly IC. Post sample at the bottom to prove it.
I’m a bit of a character, myself—part of a bundle deal with depression, and really dorky in a lame pun dad joke kinda way… seriously, there will be puns. And not a single apology for it, regardless how cringey they may or may not be.
I’m going to preface all this by saying I’m an extremely character focused writer. I tend to really develop my OCs. I’m not expecting you to come to me with a fully developed OC—I’m just giving you a heads up that character dynamics are how I get invested in something, so you have to be capable of heavy character development to mesh with me.
Also—
I’m a complete angst-lord so if you need something fluffy and nice, uh… I’m not your dude. I especially love that slow burn to angsty tortured romance—dysfunctional but intense. And those ones who fucking adore each other but neither will say it aloud, preferring to pretend there isn’t complete fucking adoration there. Maybe if you ignore it hard enough, it’ll start to doubt its own existence and fuck right off. Right?
I like pushing the boundary to the point it’s like, damn, HOW COULD THEY POSSIBLY COME BACK FROM THAT? THE RELATIONSHIP IS RUINED.
And then finding a way to somehow bring them back from that. In some capacity. SOMEHOW.
I love the dark, gritty, psychological things.
I’m not above suggesting a character die or suffer torture or get maimed for the sake of a conflict-ridden arc I have in my head.
A n y w a y —
Lemme offer some deets about me and roleplaying with me.
Post Sample:
Note—you do NOT have to read this whole thing. Or any of it, for that matter. It’s my longest post. Which makes it my favorite for showcasing my writing style. You may choose for yourself if you wanna yeet after a paragraph or two or stick it out.
This was an introduction of this character into the roleplay, and we’d planned how it would go down, so they decided to make their post include Mika stumbling upon Amasa in full-blown princess mode before I’d actually written the post of him being in full blown princess mode… so there was a lot of prior things to be covered in my post before reaching the point of intersecting with their post towards the end there. It was a little convoluted at the time, but it all worked out.
Clap three times fast
You will summon the high brow spazz
Steel yourself and call him Jazz
As for gender, they are trans
He/they pronouns are a blast
Do you care or dare to dance
A dance of words, a dance of class
A dance with someone who’s mind is mad
Sleep, it’s waning
But no complaining
As a writer, he’s amazing
Often rhymes when he’s campaigning
‘Till they find the rhymes are fading
The cat—it screeches,
Wants some treats and
Don’t you find yourself intrigued
And don’t you want to dance with me?
[m i c d r o p]
Alrighty everybody—grab some snacks and strap yourselves in ‘cause this is a long one.
I can come across quite snooty because I have ultimate confidence in my godly roleplaying skill. I’ve earned it, okay? I can look back and cringe at my old stuff, but it’s been 12 years now, so I’ve got this shit on lock.
That said, don’t be intimidated. I’m harmless. Extremely chill. Not actually snooty.
….just good.
:p
Expect casual OOC and godly IC. Post sample at the bottom to prove it.
I’m a bit of a character, myself—part of a bundle deal with depression, and really dorky in a lame pun dad joke kinda way… seriously, there will be puns. And not a single apology for it, regardless how cringey they may or may not be.
I’m going to preface all this by saying I’m an extremely character focused writer. I tend to really develop my OCs. I’m not expecting you to come to me with a fully developed OC—I’m just giving you a heads up that character dynamics are how I get invested in something, so you have to be capable of heavy character development to mesh with me.
Also—
I’m a complete angst-lord so if you need something fluffy and nice, uh… I’m not your dude. I especially love that slow burn to angsty tortured romance—dysfunctional but intense. And those ones who fucking adore each other but neither will say it aloud, preferring to pretend there isn’t complete fucking adoration there. Maybe if you ignore it hard enough, it’ll start to doubt its own existence and fuck right off. Right?
I like pushing the boundary to the point it’s like, damn, HOW COULD THEY POSSIBLY COME BACK FROM THAT? THE RELATIONSHIP IS RUINED.
And then finding a way to somehow bring them back from that. In some capacity. SOMEHOW.
I love the dark, gritty, psychological things.
I’m not above suggesting a character die or suffer torture or get maimed for the sake of a conflict-ridden arc I have in my head.
A n y w a y —
Lemme offer some deets about me and roleplaying with me.
- I’m 24, for reference. It… didn’t fit in the poem.
I do prefer partners be 18+
I write 3rd person, though tense can be either past or present depending on what feels best for a given post.
Pairings:
MxM. NB// ...occasionally MxF. FxF. In order of preference.
We probably won’t mesh if you only do MxF—I’m sorry, I have nothing against your hetero comfort zone, I just don’t tend to last long in situations where I’m not permitted to be utterly gay as fuck. I require the possibility of the big gay to comfort this gay heart after a long day of heteronormative nonsense.
I love both romance and platonic character dynamics.
My OCs:
Usually cis male. FTM. NB. Femoids happen rarely. Very rarely. 3% of OCs perhaps.
Queer as fuck.
Diverse as fuck.
Post length:
me excited = novella, many paragraphs, 1k+.
me absolute smooth brain = 2-3 paragraphs.
Post length varies (200 - 4k words) based on excitement, motivation, current events in the RP (aka heavy dialogue = usually shorter), and current level of creativity... but I tend to match your energy / effort.
I’m an advanced literate core with chill execution. I do well with other literate types that throw down when they’re excited, but can forgo the expectation of long post minimums.
Post frequency:
haha quality goes brrrrrrrr. *cries in quantity*
I’m a perfectionist. Correction: I’m a perfectionist IC. I put way too much work in my posts so they can take deadass 8+ hours to write. At least. They’re god-tier. The trade off is I’m fucking slow as shit, even on a good day. Especially if I have multiple RPs.
I’m active most days chatting and brainstorming OOC, but official posts can be more of a once every week or two thing. The rate tends to increase when I’m motivated / excited— I’ve managed a couple (shorter) posts in a day before— and decrease when I’m the opposite. Rate isn’t consistent. It’ll definitely vary throughout our endeavor.
OOC and Roleplaying Style:
I’m a massive nerd for OOC chat. Please join me on discord to talk about random shit, brainstorm stuff, and do stupid impromptu character chats. I love the dumb shit. Inside jokes. Sharing songs and memes that relate to our OCs. Showing off my latest shitty attempt at drawing the OCs. Squealing incoherently about our masterpiece.
It’s a bit unconventional, but... I greatly prefer talking / brainstorming / spitballing for at least a week or two to get a really solid sense of the characters and their dynamic before starting a thread + first post. I feel like plot comes naturally when two characters have an interesting dynamic, but when it’s just the base start of a plot and two barely developed characters it’s like... speed dating. But stretched out into an uncomfortably long span of time.
Who the heck is this character? Seriously. Who eVEN IS THIS CHARACTER? Do I like them? Will they mesh with my OC? Is this going to take a nosedive into cringe town? OH GOD. What am I doing here? Is this going to be interesting or a complete waste of time?
It’s taking the awkward small talk vibe and putting a bunch of effort into it when you could just take a minute and sort it out beforehand so the high effort stuff is actually juicy.
It’s infuriatingly hard for me to find motivation to write when I’m not invested in the characters, so the norm of jumping in with a first post like 2 hours after first contact lowkey makes me die a little inside. Don’t make me die inside. Friend. Please. Don’t do it.
It’s my style to brainstorm things in advance vs winging it, and I heavily favor character driven vs plot driven stories. Again, we will not mesh well if you’re the latter. I lose motivation if it’s just plot. Characters are how you get me starry-eyed. Tell me their story, not a story in general.
wooOoOooOoO:
I’m 100% down for hiatuses—we all need them sometimes, so no worries. Feel free to hit me up after a hiatus, even if you didn’t give me a heads up. I won’t be a meanie face.
I have severe depression myself, so I will most definitely retreat back into hermithood at some point. Expect it. If it’s just looking like a day or two of not wanting to talk to anyone, I’m not always great about giving a heads up. I just yeet for that day or two and return. Though I will make a concerted effort to give a heads up if I’m asked. This relates more to OOC.
I also get busy with work and things, so that’s another reason it’s somewhat common for me to disappear for a day or two.
As far as IC posts… and OOC brainstorming, for that matter—I need proper hiatuses sometimes when creativity is particularly comatose. For this flavor of hiatus, I’ll definitely let you know. Straight up. Your tamagotchi has potato brain. If we’re buds I’ll still be around to blabber about dumb shit OOC. It just won’t be fresh plot stuff.
CONFESSION:
I can get so unbelievably carried away if you let me. BUT ONLY IF YOU LET ME. Please, I’m not intimidating. Don’t be intimidated. I only get out of hand if you get caught up in my pace.
[can and will hatch plots to get you caught up in my pace]
*sheepish smile*
I have a thing for big universe, many character type roleplays. World-building and developing the living shit out of everything is my jam. I had a long term roleplay that had over 50 developed characters. It spanned 2 time skips and about a dozen overreaching arcs—to say nothing of individual character arcs. THERE WERE SPREADSHEETS.
I have a habit of introducing a regular trickle of “bare bones” “side characters” that I will almost surely get way too attached to.
I will then develop the living fuck out of them with the explicit goal of manipulating your own attachment before finally realizing my diabolical master plan of pushing them into honorary main character territory.
“Honorary.”
Everyone’s the protagonist of their own story.
This is how we get dozens of main characters in a roleplay. It’s fine. Don’t worry. It means I like you, and besides... I only get out of hand if you get caught up in my pace. You’d have to introduce your own “side characters” to be coaxed towards overdevelopment.
And you’re not crazy enough to do that. Right?? I’m the only lunatic here!
Unless…? 0.o
This is most prominent with Greek myth roleplays. It would be really hard for me to keep it to 1-2 OCs because there’s so much inspiration there. Other things might naturally take a smaller scale, but… it’s still pretty easy for me to get carried away.
NOTE: I don’t write a separate thing for every character in each post. I treat it more like a multi-main-character chapter book where the POV character shifts every so often… and if there are multiple characters in one place for a scene, I generally keep one POV character and portray what the others are doing from that perspective. - — ON TO THE PLOT STUFF—
Note:
I have more ideas than I care to synthesize and put in this thread, so let me know your interests and I’ll see if I have any thoughts to shoot back at you.
Feel free to pitch your own ideas, plots, characters, pairings, or cravings!
I tend to pitch characters instead of plots and pairings so excuse my weirdness.
AVOID:
Slice of life
Purely fluff + light shit
School RPs
Zombie apocalypse
Purely romantic
Purely comedy
Non-Exhaustive list of what I do like:
—Settings—
Fantasy. Medieval. Steampunk. Futuristic. Dystopian. False Utopia. Anything Historical—but not accurate, I’m not a history buff. Historical Fantasy.
I can be a little picky when it comes to sci-fi and modern day settings, but I do enjoy them, so you just have to work with me a little.
—Notable Universe Cravings—
Greek myth
Bleak war-torn universe with OCs inspired by fairytales + Alice in Wonderland
Dystopian universe with humans and angels, demons, supernatural beings
—Theme Word Vomit—
Nobles. Kingdoms. Social Commentary. Class Divides. Religious Satire. Discrimination. Corrupt Institutions. Revolutionaries. War. Slavery. Angst. Psychological. Breaking characters—physically, mentally, emotionally. Moral Dilemmas. Mental Illness. Death. After effects of torture. Gods of any religion. Greek Myth. Angels. Demons. Norse Myth. Supernatural beings. Mythological beings and folklore in general. Mutants. Dark Fairytales. Assassins. Crime. Criminals. Cops. Serial killers. Immoral experiments, scientists.
Greek Myth is my obsession and there’s a whole tab dedicated to it with detailed proposals.
—character pitches in a sentence because I’m too lazy to make full sheets for a recruitment thread—
|| please inquire for more details - all of these are developed OCs||
I didn’t include partially developed OCs because this is already longer than most people care to read.
Which is fine. Better to scare off the weak-willed ones now.
- Azzie -
cis male. he/him. gay. 5’7. ISFJ-A.
Angel of Death who operates in a grey area of relaxed rules to do his job and therefore is constantly trying not to cross some vague line and fall from grace.
- Silas -
cis male. he/him. homoromantic bisexual. 5’5. ENFP-T.
self-loathing “dog of the state” werewolf who turned on his own blood to save himself but still doesn’t get acceptance from humanity despite doing the thing that no self-respecting (and possibly sane) werewolf would do ‘cause now everyone of all species hates him, apparently.
- Brook -
cis male. he/him. gay. 5’6. ISTP-A.
gunslinger with a numb heart, tortured past, and extremely loose morals but he’s the sheriff because he owes a debt to somebody who saved him from his tortured past and they wanted him to be the sheriff—so he does that dutifully until becoming lowkey obsessed with a baddie that seems to cure that numb heart problem, then he fudges things a bit and always lets them best him.
- Barnes -
cis male. he/him. gay. 5’6. INTP-A.
mentally unstable, black-sheep nobleman doctor that doesn’t bend to authority and is possibly a serial killer.
- Domino -
cis male. he/him. gay. 5’11. xNTP-A
former slave in a subservient position of power that manages a region with heavy slave labor despite his past because it's a dog eat dog world and he’s terrified of becoming a slave again more than anything else.
- Brandon -
cis male. he/him. pansexual. 5’4. ENTP-T.
largely unpopular, super insecure noble who’s cynical and crazy eloquent; he became a doctor solely to get some recognition, but didn’t get any, so now he doesn’t know what the fuck people expect from him in exchange for a little acceptance.
- Hercules -
cis male. he/him. pansexual. 5’11. ENFJ-T.
demigod soldier boywho’s in love withdesperately wants the acceptance of his commander because they both know what it’s like to have nobody else in the world—but he shows it by being a rebellious little shit and going on solo espionage missions to do things nobody else can, which the commander takes issue with.
- Barbosa -
cis male. he/him. pansexual. 5’5. INFJ-A.
super paranoid excommunicated priest who dabbles in the dark arts and occasionally hunts the supernatural—adding parts and living creatures to a very unethical collection and running an underground demonic pawn shop that has a little of everything because he’s probably fucked everything over at some point or another.
- Boris -
cis male. he/him. gay. 5’11. ESTJ-T.
self-deprecating cop with social anxiety who’s totally fearless except when it comes to interpersonal relationships—wants people to like him but doesn’t think they ever do, stupidly stubborn and direct, feels guilty about his own existence sometimes, has a mechanical arm and leg after losing limbs during torture, and has a habit of liking people he really shouldn’t.
...Huh. Most of the OCs I’m craving happened to be the ones with B-names.
—full character sheet for the select one I’m not too lazy for—
|| inquire if you want a plot with him ||
- AMASA -
cis male. he/him. pansexual. 4’11. INFJ-T. chaotic good.
bleeding heart chaos midget who can and will go into full blown princess mode when the need arises—wholesome, nervous, only surviving member of his tribe, horribly lost on the road of life after losing everything save his last shred of hope that he may find some purpose and self-worth again.
—Known Names and Titles—
His true name is known by no one, but it roughly translates to extremes in fortune. He will either achieve greatness or suffer absolute misery.
Matunaaga – ((Mah-too-nah-gah))
This was his known name when he lived among his own people. He revoked it after his tribe was wiped out and he failed to protect them. It means fighter in his native tongue.
Matua – ((Mah-too-ah))
Condensed/informal version of Matunaaga
Amasa – ((Ah-mahs-ah))
He took this as his known name after revoking his former one, Matua. It means burden in his native tongue. Though he was once a proud warrior that fought to protect his people, he is now only a burden to them—to their legacy—and the name Amasa is a constant reminder of that.
Voice: Banners
—Assorted Character Notes—
There are several different Dryadic Tribes, each with their own culture. One difference between tribes is their naming system: different tribes always choose names that end in a certain letter. One tribe has names that always end with i and another has names that end with e. Amasa's tribe always ends their names with a. Everything that follows relates specifically to Amasa's tribe, not necessarily Dryads as a whole.
Dryad // General Guidelines:
Human appearance. Skin tone varies. Their hair is usually kept long and styled with dreadlocks or braids. They have lean, athletic builds—usually standing at no taller than 5’2”—and they’re known to be extremely quick on their feet. If left to die of natural causes, Dryads have long life spans. There are a few that have lived several hundred years. It’s exceedingly common to die brutal deaths at a young age, however, with most dying well before they reach 100.
Dryads don’t usually form traditional family units, preferring to treat the entire community as a single extended family. All responsibilities are shared.
They possess average human strength. No magical or spiritual ability. Dryads are generally quite intelligent and quick learners. As a formerly nomadic tribe, they often assimilated knowledge and technology from other cultures into their own. Though they transitioned from a nomadic to a sedentary lifestyle—and then transitioned further to raid and conquer—they continue to cherish the ideals of their ancestors and devote their lives to the pursuit of knowledge. As a testament to this, most children become fluent in 3-4 languages before they reach adulthood. Cannibalism is a common occurrence in Dryad society, but they prefer to eat other species and creatures.
Dryads are proponents of Darwinism – natural selection eliminates anyone weak, unintelligent, slow, or unable to survive on their own. Their culture revolves around individual pride and self-worth. No one has a right to exist in the world unless they earn their place. There are two distinct factions within Dryad society—those who have been accepted into the community and those who have not. Dryads have an extremely strong sense of loyalty and kinship within their respective factions. If they prove worthy, young Dryads are accepted as kin a year before adulthood. The rejects are eaten.
. . .
1. Children are born nameless and have no right to exist in the world.
2. Names signify a person’s right to exist. A child receives a name when they prove themself worthy of existence.
3. If a child does not receive a name, they continue to be treated as an object until they’re eventually eaten.
4. If a child does receive a name, it must never be spoken. It’s known only to the child and the Mundoo (manifestation of the universe/divine spirit) that bestowed it. It signifies the child’s pride, confidence, self-worth, and his status as someone who is entitled to life. It’s their right to exist in their own mind. It’s their very heart.
5. If this name is spoken to another, the dryad is offering themself completely to that person, and they are entitled to do as they please with them and all their name signifies. When the name is spoken it is given away, and the name is the only thing that prevents a Dryad from being nothing. There is no greater vulnerability than giving up one’s name at will. And no greater humiliation than having it taken away.
6. If a Dryad further proves their worth after receiving a name, they will receive a second name. This name may be spoken to the ends of the universe because it’s a Dryad’s right to exist in the minds of other people. It’s the right to have a legacy and further validate their existence so no one could ever question they had a right to survive in this world.
7. Dryads may receive multiple names throughout their lives if they gain enough acclaim.
8. Dryads must always place great importance on learning and mastering new skills. Skills help them prove their worth and maintain it—as those who cease to earn their place in the world will return to the nothing they once were.
. . .
When the name is received—it literally equates to the universe saying, “Yes—you’re important. You belong here. You mean something and I want to see what you become.” It’s symbolic for one’s own self-worth and confidence. For Dryad children, who are abused and treated like objects from birth, the ability to overcome insecurity and gain confidence is their coming of age trial.
The idea behind giving up one’s name is as follows:
If the name is kept to yourself, you are entirely responsible for it—you have absolute power over your own self-esteem. If you protect it from outside influences and avoid doubting yourself… it’ll essentially remain forever. If that name is given away, however, you’re allowing other people to have power over your own feelings of adequacy. They get to decide whether you’re worth everything or nothing. If they decide you’re worth something—that’s a powerful feeling. You’re better off than you were. And if you were doubting yourself and they decided to build you up—you’re much better off than you were.
However… if they decide to destroy you—that’s it. The damage is done. It doesn’t matter that you still have your name inside your heart—they’ve used their power over it to render it meaningless. The words of those that broke you will always be there. You’ll start to recite them yourself. I’m not good enough. I’m not smart enough. No one cares for me. I can’t do this. And so on. It’s detrimental. And those words only matter if you gave them the power to matter. That’s why your name must be protected. Once it’s given away, it’s difficult to bring it back under your protection. It’s difficult to overcome that vulnerability once it’s exposed.
Dryads aren’t equipped to deal with their vulnerability and the aftermath of “returning to nothing” because of their culture. They aren’t taught about emotional health. Children must be confident and happy and stable to survive, but they’re not granted the tools and the environment to naturally achieve that… so they’re forced to pretend. They suppress their pain and mimic those who are worthy—and if they suppress and pretend well enough, they’re rewarded. They’re taught that suppressing negative feelings is the key to survival. To make matters worse, once their value as a person is established, it’s treated as some fragile treasure that can never be repaired once it’s broken. Doubting oneself—chipping away at the edges of the treasure—that can be tolerable… but allowing it to shatter completely is a fate worse than death.
Dryads are only shown love after they prove they’re worthy of it. And while the effect of love and acceptance after an entire childhood of neglect is unbelievably powerful—it doesn’t erase the damage from those years of literal torture they’ve endured. That pain becomes a deep-rooted fear of deprivation. They fear losing their newfound sense of belonging. In some cases, it might even manifest as a fear of losing anything.
How could they possibly return to nothing after experiencing what it’s like to have “everything?”
If they don’t know how to heal the wounds they already have—they couldn’t possibly bear to endure more. That’s why a Dryad protects their name above all else. That’s why their names are literally their hearts.
—Fighting Style—
Amasa carries three weapons: a sword, a bow, and a small hunting dagger. All three have an extremely simple design. They're well-built, but they're nothing special. The blades are mostly for show. He does hunt, so he uses the dagger to clean carcasses. As far as the sword, he’s fairly inept at swordsmanship. He can’t parry or gracefully swing his blade in such a way that his opponent won’t read his every move. “Stick ‘em with the pointy end” and “Strike hard and true for a clean beheading” is the extent of his knowledge. He tends to avoid any sort of close-range fighting.
He’s great at dodging and running away. One benefit of being a Dryad—his small frame and quick reflexes make him a difficult target to hit. His strength is somewhat limited, however. He’s strong for his size, it’s mostly upper arm strength, but against larger opponents that level of strength just doesn’t cut it. He really doesn’t have any offensive capabilities beyond fighting dirty or using his bow. He has a very strong self-preservation instinct and can’t bring himself to go anywhere near someone who’s swinging a weapon at him… so it’s largely impossible for him to do damage against someone with a blade unless he has his bow. If he doesn’t… the fight would drag on because he’d dodge his opponent but never land any blows… so it would just continue until someone got tired enough to collapse or give up. Therefore, he generally avoids conflict or engages in guerrilla warfare.
When it comes to archery, Amasa is one of the best. His bow is a traditional Chinese recurve style—90lb draw weight because, yes, he’s a badass like the medieval archers of old. His maximum effective shooting distance is about 120 yards… he’s confident in his accuracy at that distance.
His quiver’s capacity is 20 arrows. Usually steel-tipped... but he knows how to make his own arrowheads from flint or bone. Day-to-day, he carries only one quiver, but if he knows he will be engaging in combat or he’s just paranoid that day, he’ll strap an extra one across the small of his back—bringing his arrow count to 40. In the event that shit really hits the fan, he’ll leave his sword and don a third quiver in its place… bringing his armed-to-the-teeth arrow count to 60. He can’t carry any more than that because that shit is bulky as hell.
He’s not an honorable fighter at all. Every fight is for survival and he’s not betting his life on some stupid honor code. If he’s pinned or cornered close-range… he will take cock-shots. Eyes. Throat. Ribs. Joints. He’ll throw dirt in your face. He’ll bite your fucking ear off. He’ll thrash around like a crazed lunatic. He avoids head-on fights like the plague—it’s not his skillset—but he’ll put absolutely everything he has into a fight if he’s forced into it. And he’ll run away the moment he sees an opening because only idiots and badasses stay to fight in close quarters.
—Amasa's Full Armor—
This is an exact representation of his armor. It's a light leather set that he wears to look proper and protect him when he actually engages in combat. Ideally. He’s usually too lazy to wear this set unless he KNOWS he’s gonna be fighting. He keeps his weapons with him at all times, wearing both his sword and bow on his back and his hunting knife sheathed on his right thigh. He has a myriad of leather pouches strapped to his belt that he keeps random things in, mostly food items such as nuts and preserved meat, but also little trinkets, rum, poison, and anything else he thinks might be useful. He's extremely paranoid and tries to be prepared for everything.
—Unarmored and Casual—
((swap metal bracers for leather and remove the metal shoulder piece))
This is a general representation of what Amasa wears when he's too lazy to don his armor... which, in all honesty, is most of the time. Unfortunately. Yes, he keeps his shirt open and everything. He also likes the mysterious air the hooded cape lends him, though he usually keeps the hood down. He always dons his belt and its myriad of pouches because one can never be too prepared.
—Personality—
All or nothing. Passionate. Extremely emotional. Strong intuition. Empathetic. Views the world in terms of its potential. Feels like an outsider. Craves deep connections with people, doesn’t always know how to get them. Values honesty above all else. Strong set of core values. Believes he’s always right. Sacrifices himself for others. People pleaser. Kindhearted. Warm. Compassionate. Idealist. Envisions the world at its best but acts upon the reality of the situation. Neither a leader nor a follower. Notices the darkness in the world, but often chooses to see the best in everything despite it. Poetic. Romantic. Colorfully describes things. Creative. Outrageously silly at times. Doesn’t want anyone to feel inadequate. Dislikes conflict. Fiercely loyal. Overprotective. Neurotic.
He has several nervous ticks, and eating out of stress is the most common. He sort of relies on food when he doesn’t know what to do with himself—when he has to do something but he feels completely powerless in the situation.
He fears that he’s not strong enough to face the world or protect anything that matters to him. This is the root of an inherent sadness and lack of motivation that causes him to withdraw from life when he doesn’t have anyone to anchor him to it. The moment he starts to truly care about anything, he becomes terrified of losing it.
Because of this constant fear and worrying, he’s unreasonably overprotective of everything he cares about. He knows that everything can change in a mere instant… he knows that if he just blinks everything could be gone and he’d never be the same. That’s happened before. His tribe was brutally wiped out several years ago. He couldn’t protect a single person, leaving him as one of the only survivors. It left this gaping hole in his heart that he wants nothing more than to fill… but at the same time, he’s afraid of meeting someone who could heal his heart because it would hurt that much more if the universe broke him again.
He’s lazy as fuck and only does stuff for the sake of other people. If left to his own devices without anyone to rely on him in some way, he quickly falls into inactivity and enters a state of complete disarray. He’s often forgetful and doesn’t take care of himself properly—he doesn’t sleep or eat or bathe as much as he should. He doesn’t have any ambition or competitive drive. He basically just wanders around doing whatever feels right. That’s his life. That’s been his life for years. In his mind, he’s already lived his life and it was taken from him… so the half-life he leads at present is only worth anything if it helps others somehow. If he can’t do that… his life is meaningless and undeserving of any real effort.
Amasa is extremely empathetic and concerned with the wellbeing of other people. The effort he puts into helping others—even random strangers—is astounding, especially when you contrast it with his inherent laziness. He puts everything he has into people. Most times he’ll even risk his own well-being. Altruism almost always gets the better of him despite his strong self-preservation instincts. It’s a penance of sorts. He was unable to save those who mattered most to him… so now he can’t stand by and watch anyone suffer. Not even for stupid stuff life crying over a game. He has to help everyone he can to make up for his greatest failures. He carries a thing to put little tick marks on his forearm—a tally of his random acts of kindness. The marks usually make him feel okay, somehow, most days… it’s tangible proof that his existence still means something… but it washes away, reminding him that he must constantly work to earn his right to exist despite his failures.
One would think that Amasa’s level of empathy would cause him to value mercy over justice… and he does to some degree, but it’s more complicated than that. Amasa believes that there’s no overreaching plan or laws or sense of order in the universe. He doesn’t believe in karma or a hierarchy or anything of the sort. Even the Gods are little more than just a different species in his eyes—there’s no true higher power, just a neutral universe whose only law is randomness. Everything that happens can be attributed to one of two causes: the randomness of the universe, which one can do absolutely nothing to avoid, or the direct consequences of people’s actions… which one can have some control over.
Amasa holds great disdain towards those who would harm or tread upon others—an individual’s freedom and uniqueness and rights are the most important things in the universe. He believes that ridding the world of those who harm others is literally the only way to improve it… so he can be very unforgiving towards those he deems “evil.” Yet there’s no black-and-white guideline to determine when someone is irredeemable… and Amasa is completely against the idea of something like that anyway; he hates laws and absolutes—they’re restricting and useless and the enemies of freedom and equality—so he has no sure way to determine whether someone deserves to be forgiven or eradicated from the world. Despite that, Amasa has taken it upon himself to act as judge and executioner in a world without karma, so he does the only thing he can: whatever feels right in that particular moment.
He trusts his feelings and intuition more than anything. They’re his only guide in a world that frankly scares the shit out of him. He wouldn’t be able to function without his mysterious ability to pull truths from the atmosphere. So he holds his feelings as the only absolute. He never doubts them. Whatever he feels is right is most certainly the right thing to do—and it’s a fool’s errand to convince him otherwise. He’ll hold true to his initial intuitive impressions of people 95% of the time, no matter what evidence is presented to undermine his viewpoint. If he determines that someone is evil… they’re evil. If he feels someone is inherently good… they’re good. If he says someone deserves mercy… they do. It doesn’t always make sense and he usually can’t describe his reasoning for any given decision… there’s not a shred of science to it… but that’s how he does things.
He’s highly sensitive and extremely emotional. It’s really hard for him to control his emotions because they’re so intense. The one exception of anger—he’s good at suppressing that so long as he doesn’t completely lose his temper. Excitable and very easily moved, he’s the type of person who’d shed tears over the inherent beauty of a flower or the remarkable deliciousness of a plum. His intuition causes him to pick up on other people’s feelings to the point of feeling them himself, so if someone around him is upset about something… fuck—he’s probably going to end up bawling about that, too. Amasa has a spirit about him that invites people to like and trust him. He generally seems so genuine and harmless it makes people feel safe around him.
Upbeat and trivial is his default state of being. He seems perpetually nonchalant and a bit scatterbrained. It’s a front on some level, but at the same time it isn’t ingenuine. He’s just focusing on the little pieces of himself that aren’t broken… the little pieces of himself that he absolutely cannot allow to break because they’re like fragments of the people he loved most and that’s all he has left. No matter how bad things get… he has to stay positive and revel in foolery because that’s what they would’ve wanted.
He does his own thing most of the time. He doesn’t like authority. He doesn’t like when people dominate other people. If he takes a subservient role to someone—and it’s in his nature to do that—he wants it to be his choice. It’s completely fine if he chooses to give someone authority over him, he’ll be dedicated to them and loyal to a fault, but if someone tries to dominate him against his will… well, fuck that shit. He’s mellow but he has a rebellious nature. He’s definitely a revolutionary at heart. If some person or system is making people suffer, what else is there to do but overthrow it? He’s generally against anything that restricts a person’s freedom to act. He doesn’t give a single shit about social constructs or any sort of expectation anyone has of him. He doesn’t care what people think—unless he specifically cares for them, then he’ll completely tear himself apart worrying what they think of him and everything else—but generally no fucks are given about anything except what he feels is right.
He also doesn’t care much for material possessions or social status. He’d be completely content living in a cave or makeshift shelter in the woods while the townfolk told stories of him being a hagraven. Amasa is very easy to please. He isn’t high-maintenance. Give him food and the slightest bit of affection and he’ll have sparkles in his eyes.
He’s a bit naïve… always trying to see the best in people and maybe being a little too trusting. He often gives extra chances to those who probably don’t deserve them. It can be hard for him to forgive someone who hurts other people—although he can and will, if he feels they’re inherently good at their core—but he’s very prone to forgiving those that hurt him. If he’s ever cared about the person in question and they repeatedly hurt him… he’ll likely forgive them time and time again and be completely frustrated with himself for it… but he just can’t help himself. He likes the idea of an eye for an eye and swift justice but often his heart is just too kind to actually carry it out.
Despite his sensitivity towards people’s feelings… Amasa is actually really bad at comforting people. It’s painful to watch. He just doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know how to make people feel better, he just knows how they’re feeling and often times that seems useless without the former skillset.
Amasa has a lot of patience. In most cases he just doesn’t give a shit—so if someone was yelling at him but he felt like he hadn’t done anything wrong, there’d be no reason for him to get upset. Other times, he’s looking out for the wellbeing of others before himself. Losing his temper might make him feel better, but the possibility of creating conflict or hurting someone makes him choose to keep himself under control. - Only do Greek myth with me if you’re interested in big universe, many OC roleplays. You have been warned.
—Early Greek Myth—
Focused more on Titans, leading to the Titanomachy. This is completely new territory for me so I don’t have many pre-developed characters or ideas for it out the gate.
The developed OCs I have that could fit include Zeus, Thanatos, Poseidon, and possibly Hades.
I have partially developed ideas for Prometheus. Cronus. Tartarus warden. Erebus. Uranus.
All that is from brainstorming for other things, though, so again it’s new territory and you’d get the joys of starting from scratch with me.
—Middle Greek Myth—
This basically encompassing myth after Zeus becomes lord of all gods. I have a lot of ideas for OCs and thoughts for a general overreaching arc that climaxes at the fall of Zeus.
Ares would be my starting character here—his sheet is down below, along with some of my pairing notes to give you ideas for your starting character.
The format is -character sheet- and then -proposals- which is basically a mess of thoughts I have for possible pairings, scenes, conflicts, etc… especially proposed scenes will be written in my character chat or rough draft / outline of a post format because I’m not writing polished post level things one sidedly for something that could significantly change.
I can get relatively detailed with these—and yes, it is godmodding at this point because there’s not actually YOU there yet to take ownership of the character—but I want to stress that these are PROPOSALS to be used as mere INSPIRATION. I fully anticipate things to change as you make the character your own and we figure out things that fit the now specific dynamic. You’re also welcome to propose something radically different.
FTM. He/Him. Bisexual. 6’1. ENFJ-T.
Voice: KAWALA
Runaway - KAWALA
Start A War - Klergy, Valerie Broussard
Optional Bonus Songs:
Lose My Head - Honest Men
Funky - KAWALA
God of War and Courage
Violent and Untamed Aspect of War
Personification of Sheer Brutality and Bloodlust
—Powers—
He has a particular spear that he’s able to summon at will. Once summoned, he can throw it and hold out his hand to call it back sort of like Thor’s hammer in the Marvel movies.
If he’s completely resolved in what he’s doing, he can project one of two auras:
A bright, courageous aura to rally those around him—basically sweeping them up in feelings of confidence and courage.
A dark aura of palpable bloodlust and brutality that’s used to intimidate or simply convey how intensely he wants to rip a thing to shreds.
—assorted character notes—
Ares is perhaps the least loved of all the Olympian Gods.
When he was younger, they didn’t believe he was fit to be a God of War. They saw a lanky, awkward boy who didn’t excel at the finer points of strategy as Athena did, but also did not seem cut out for the physical, violent aspects of war that were supposedly his to own. He was merely a generation removed from the Titans—but in the eyes of Olympians he couldn’t be farther from their stature, from the clear imposing aura of their unbelievable strength.
This is our God of War?
How underwhelming, inadequate.
That’s what he saw when he looked at himself through the sentiments of everyone else. They thought he was weak because he didn’t align with their expectation of what a God of War should look like, what a God of War should be. He became accustomed to looks of disappointment early in life. He had no choice but to grow accustomed to it—to numb himself such that the sting of it no longer showed… but he yearned to prove himself unworthy of those looks. He yearned to become a God of War that Olympus would have pride in.
That yearning would become the foundation of his greatest regret.
His first war. His first battles—they were so insignificant to history, but he had so much to prove, so much personal interest in the outcome.
How many times had he watched Athena play at war in those shining courtyards? How many times had he studied her careful moves of figures on a map, her pawns on a board, watching the quiet battles unfold?
He had only ever seen her war. The intelligent war. The clean war. It was all strategy—all desensitized, so far removed from the battlefield one couldn’t possibly imagine the actual weight of each piece laid prone on the table.
How could he have envisioned—how could he have realized that the casualties, once piled, would look more like the mountain of Olympus than the polished pieces in the palm of her hand?
The battlefield wasn’t anything like he expected.
There is strategy to it, there’s order in how the fighters are arranged, in clever tasks to be completed, but…
Have you ever seen a world without restraint?
Untrained eyes might say humanity is lost on a battlefield, but that’s not it. Humanity is there. It’s just the worst parts of it. The base sludge of humanity—the parts that’re pushed down and hidden because they’re too monstrous to be seen clearly in the sun’s light. You let loose your darkness on a battlefield. You flail around in it. You face others’ darkness.
You kill. You maim. You scream. You rage. Any moment you can die. You do not think of the civilized things—restraint recedes into the depths of your soul where the darkness once lived. You do not think of morality. You do not think of anything, really—the battle commences and we are all at once transformed into something animalistic. We are instinct. Instruments of violence. We have no use for self control.
And it feels good, doesn’t it?
It feels good to forget the rules. How glorious to act without a single care what is thought of you—to have no worry for consequence. How fucking wonderful to release all the pent up everything and finally take it out on something, someone, instead of taking it in and never letting go.
His first war. His first battles.
Ares faced the darkness, and he learned of monsters. He learned of his own monster. So much pent up rage and frustration, so much food for his darkness all these years—
His monster was so, so much worse than the others.
Was it a curse, the embodiment of his being the God of Violent War?
Was it solely of his own making?
It didn’t matter. It was there, and from the moment of its release there was no going back to blissful ignorance of what unbridled violence he was capable of when restraint faltered.
. . .
His first battle. Concluded. A horn sounds and restraint is reinstated. A hush falls over chaos as though the events of a moment prior were just a fever dream.
It’s quiet, now. It’s safe, now. It’s over, now.
Yet it wasn’t a fever dream.
There’s blood on his face, now. There’s gurgles of agony, now. There’s bodies on the ground, now.
They’re shitting themselves and it’s mixing with mud.
Is that what glory is? A glorious dead bastard, face down in the mud, balls deep in shit and blood after the soul leaves?
Now is when Ares has a moment to think.
Now is when Ares has a moment to process.
Now is when it really starts to sink in—the difference between his war and Athena’s.
His ears were ringing. Other voices started to pull at his focus. Cries of the wounded, the broken, the maimed—the better-off-dead but currently forsaken by death’s embodiment. Were they his soldiers? The enemy? He couldn’t tell.
Not so silent after all.
It’s a curious question—what did the God of War do after his first victory?
He doesn’t like that question. Doesn’t answer it. Why?
Because he stumbled back to his tent and puked. He puked his fucking guts out.
Does that embarrass him? It did. It used to. But that’s not why he avoids the story now—that’s not what shames him in hindsight. It’s what happens after.
That’s the only war he ever fought that he didn’t believe in. He doesn’t have fixed allegiances—today’s ally is tomorrow enemy, all dependent on what they’re fighting for. What side stirs his spirit to believe it’s worth the price of what happens when he goes to war. It’s entirely necessary—the ugly, violent aspect of war. He doesn’t lament that. He doesn’t weep for the fallen. He doesn’t shy from his monster when the war drums start.
Because he knows, now, to only fight when the payoff is enough to outweigh all that. He will not fight a battle that’ll leave him with regret. Not again.
Why did he fight that war?
It was to prove himself. That’s it. That’s his only reason. He wanted to prove himself to the Olympians so they might have pride in him as their God of War. Yet here he was, after his first battle, puking his guts out after realizing the brutalities of his war. Would they find pride in that? Would a Titan God of War do that? Were they perhaps right when they called him a disappointment?
It was his war. His aspect of war. The absolute gall of them to be so opinionated on that which they knew nothing about. He was the one who lived in the same body as the aspect war—he was united with it. He couldn’t possibly fall short. What, was he to fall short of himself? He was war. The embodiment of it. Literally! There wasn’t even a Titan God of War! Violent war—the aspect chose him, and only him.
How foolish he was not to realize that.
He put a chip on his own shoulder. Overcompensated because of a thing that no one even saw. He was himself when he puked in that tent… and playing a part when he walked out of it. He twisted himself into something grotesque for them. Twisted his war into something grotesque for them.
How disgusting—to fight a war purely for himself. To think it acceptable when lives were obliterated for his mere vanity! The Olympians still did not think of him fondly, but truly, he had never been more Olympian than he was in those moments.
The utter shame of it. He could not loathe himself more for those moments if he tried.
One of the final moments. Let us go over when he met his monster.
He was challenged. It was someone he outranked—he outranked them all, mere humans to a god—but this one was smarter than he was. Older, wiser… and they could see plainly what he was fighting for. They called him on it. And they were right—everything they said was right… but he didn’t want to see it.
Imagine. Your first war, your desperate attempt to prove yourself worthy, and some human says they’re better off without you. Asking the literal God of War to leave their war alone because the path he’s on leads to ruin. It wasn’t just Olympus, now. The humans were disappointed too.
He was done. They fought a duel for command of the army, and he was done.
The darkness of battle...
How glorious to act without a single care what is thought of you.
How fucking wonderful to release all the pent up everything and finally take it out on something, someone, instead of taking it in and never letting go.
It didn’t end when the human died. It was hardly even started. Their body wasn’t recognizable when he’d finally stopped and stepped away.
One might not even realize the pieces came together to form a human.
He didn’t regret it. Not until after the war. And when regret did come, it wasn’t because nobody else on that battlefield could muster the bloodthirst needed to defile a corpse so horrifically...
He wasn’t scared of his monster. He wasn’t ashamed of it. That was his aspect, his war. His untamed violence. He owns it. Embodies it. There’s a sense of home in it. A comfort, even.
He regrets it because the monster was released for pitiful, disgusting reasons.
How could he possibly live with this regret?
. . .
He swore to never again fight for his own sake. That’s how he comes to terms with his greatest regret. He only fights wars for others, if he believes in their cause. And outside of war? He shows complete restraint. The other gods aren’t shy in their sneering—their dislike, their trying to make a fool of him. They think him too violent, now, where before it was too gentle… and either way, they don’t actually fear him; they don’t actually hold back their bullying.
Some have been so bold as to strike him, beat him—but he never retaliates. He doesn’t even run. Just stands and takes it.
[Ares killing the eagle that eats Prometheus every morning]
Seriously. Poor thing swooped down for breakfast and Ares took his spear and made it a fucking kabob. There’s a moment of silence, perhaps, as Prometheus processes what just happened and Ares watches blood drip down the length of his spear.
He’ll seem distracted, maybe even a bit mesmerized.
“...What a rude bird.”
He glances over to Prometheus. An aloof, yet slightly dorky smile.
“Ares—“
Confident voice. So unlike his childhood.
“—God of War.”
[awkward pause]
“......hi.”
[even more awkward half-wave, a few seconds delayed from the end of his hi.]
He’ll begin un-kabobbing the kabob, placing the bird upside down on some rocks. His spear is laid to rest beside it.
“I’m not very well liked on Olympus. You and I seem to have that in common. Though, I’m…” [giving the dude another glance over] “...clearly better off.”
“You’re a Titan, aren’t you? Silly question. You are. I know that. Not many of you around nowadays, gotta say...”
Ah. That was rude.
...oh well.
“I have questions. Indulge me, won’t you?”
He’ll glance at the bird again, then release a half-chuckle, dorky smile turning mischievous, then dark… a small amount of bloodlust slipping into his demeanor.
His voice losing the scattered, carefree edge of a moment prior, shifting to something more pointed, vengeful.
“Mm.”
“Hold that thought.”
He’ll leave...
…and return a bit later, carrying firewood, immediately plopping down to start a fire.
((If Prometheus were to try and speak, Ares would simply put a hand up to hush him, silently convey that he ought to keep holding that thought a little longer.))
((If the dude were to keep speaking beyond that, well, Ares would turn to look at him a few moments. Blink. Then entirely ignore him until he was ready to continue the conversation. Or, at least, it would seem he was entirely ignoring him.))
He’ll scrutinize the bird a few moments, imagining how to gracefully gut it with a fucking 8’ long spear rather than a knife. Spoiler: his imaginings aren’t graceful, and neither is the literal attempt in real life. But he gets the job done.
He notices a bit of blood on his fingers and moves to shake it off, failing to do so satisfactorily, of course, since blood is sticky… so he pops a quick thumb in his mouth, twisting it in a fluid motion that somehow conveys that he does this all the time and knows the most efficient way to suck blood off one’s fingers as though it were a tangy sauce.
Yet… this time he makes a face, as though it wasn’t anywhere near close to tasty, like he expected, and the whole of his attention shifts to darting his gaze around, trying to find something else to force the blood onto and save his fingers. He tries a rock at first, finding nothing else in range, but it doesn’t work well so he gives up and resigns himself to having blood on his pants today. Again.
((Prometheus probably not having seen another living thing besides the rude bird™ in a small eternity… and realizing this first person in forever is fucking weird.))
After putting pieces of the bird over the fire to cook, he’ll grab his spear and use the blunt end to take aim at one of the links in the chain holding Prometheus down, successfully breaking it after two or three strikes. He’ll now have a hand free, despite still being chained to the rock.
Ares grabs a canteen of water and throws it at him.
((If he has water, why didn’t he use that to wash off the blood? Good question. How long has it been since Prometheus last drank?))
He’ll plop down by the fire and mindlessly prod at the embers.
Clearing his throat.
[pause]
“So. What would you do?”
“If you weren’t chained to a rock as eternal chicken food.”
Shifting his focus from the fire to Prometheus, his demeanor from mindless to sharp.
“Hypothetical question, of course.”
A sly grin.
“Do you prefer to die while the option is available to you, or would you shoulder the risk of leaving here without permission?”
“Would you gamble your life on vengeance? Or maybe the more dangerous path—attempting happiness, stitching your scars with precious things to lose?”
“Maybe both?”
—a bit later—
((He’ll probably sit in silence awhile after Prometheus answers his initial questions, if he answers.))
Then he’ll grab one of the bird pieces, inspecting it to see if it’s well cooked, then leave his spear to walk over to Prometheus, dropping to a crouch and holding the piece out to him.
Offering Prometheus the chance to eat the bird that’s eaten him every morning for some several dozen years.
He’ll make eye contact and stare him down a bit, again being intense instead of scattered. Serious instead of carefree.
His voice’ll lower.
“Why’d you do it? Zeus is Lord of Olympus. God of Gods. You were outmatched. Why the hell did you serve humanity over the Gods—not even that, over your own skin?”
“Was it worth it?”
“Humans. Not one has come to save you. Not one has even tried. Wars waged over the dumbest shit—there was a war waged over a wooden bucket, for fuck’s sake, and nobody thought to fight for the one who gave them fire?”
Cocking his head. Raising an eyebrow.
“Would you do it again?”
. . .
> Ares gives the people he likes weird nicknames... he doesn’t want to use the obvious ones, he wants to be the only person to use the nickname, so it’s special—and there’s usually some hidden sentiment in it, too. Case in point: Prometheus is Meaty. Because Methe —> Meaty… and it reminds him of the time he cooked the rude bird™.
> He 100% plans to release Prometheus regardless of how he answers the questions.
> He’s feeling Prometheus out ‘cause he basically wants a right hand man. If he likes the dude, he wants to propose something like “I’ll watch your back, and you watch mine.” Since he never fights for himself, but doesn’t foresee that he’ll always be able to manage that and live.Okay, yeah… I’ll admit it. This is an unconventional pairing.
But I swear to god, I’m gonna sell you on it. You’re gonna be screaming OTP right alongside me. B e t .
I have a whole ass arc for this.
Note from future me: I’m not even done with the pitch, okay. I stopped writing about half way through the arc I have in mind, ‘cause... it occurred to me I’m over-baiting the hook for a recruitment thread.
. . .
Hephaestus is God of Fire and basically a lot of things that amount to smithing. He’s the blacksmith for the gods. Makes all their weapons.
Hephaestus himself isn’t very popular among the gods—he doesn’t have that godly beauty that they do. He’s a blacksmith—he was born to be the embodiment of fire and blacksmithing. He’s built for it. So he’s rough looking. Many would be vain and cruel about that on Olympus. So he’s thrown out of social circles, isolated. Even those who might not care about his looks would be pressured to join the collective shunning. Maybe his personality and demeanor become rough, too.
Ares wasn’t liked, but he wasn’t ejected from Olympian circles. He refused to be pushed away. Whereas Hephaestus stayed on the outskirts he was pushed to, Ares was always pushing to get back to center. Initially, he wanted to prove himself and change their perceptions… and then later, after abandoning that desire, he still pushed because he didn’t want to turn and run. That courageous aspect (that nobody seems to remember, despite listing all the aspects of other gods) doesn’t let him turn and run. He’ll be damned if he lets them have their way and bully his very existence into submission.
So despite both being outcasts, a younger Ares and Hephaestus didn’t often share the same space.
I’m thinking perhaps this stirs some bitterness in Hephaestus. Ares, despite being more fervently disliked, has a better position in Olympus than he does. Ares somehow seems to belong there and he doesn’t. Add the bad reputation that Ares gets after his first war, when he starts spending more time away from Olympus being a bloodthirsty personification of violence, and you’ve got Hephaestus being bitter and prejudiced against the guy.
B u t .
Sometime after that first war, Hephaestus makes Ares’ spear. Which regardless of it being his job to make that spear… it’s Ares’ favorite thing ever, and it’s literally the only time someone’s actually given him something. Ares babies his spear and takes better care of it than any other god takes care of their weapon. Like, ever. Hands down. He comes around every so often to get it sharpened—though it doesn’t actually need to be sharpened, because he does that himself along with polishing and oiling, so it’s pretty much an excuse to see the dude who made and gave him his favorite thing ever—and Hephaestus sees how fucking well cared for it is. Ares respects his work in a way that nobody else does.
And then there’s Ares himself. Regardless how much Hephaestus stiff arms the guy… he gives no shits whatsoever. He’s the ultimate Olympic outcast. Nobody likes him. He’s used to that shit. So he still just comes around and acts like this geeky go-lucky bastard as if they’re fucking friends or something. And of course having the nerve to be an absolute dork over the spear.
. . .
{“You ever name it?”}
“...I haven’t named him. I can’t think of a name that seems good enough.”
{Hephaestus hekkin e y e r o l l}
{“Weapons made by a master are supposed to have names.”}
“Mm.”
[Ares hekkin GRUMBLE.]
[NOW HE HAS TO THINK OF SOMETHING.]
“I could name him after his creator, then. Hephaestus. Hephaes...spear.”
A sudden realization.
He breaks into a grin and you can just see the sparkles forming in his eyes.
“Hephaespear.”
He inhales sharply, with a snort.
“Have-a-spear!”
Starting to laugh, now.
“Oh, it’s perfect!”
Hysterically laughing.
“‘Cause—‘cause it’s—it’s your name, and spear, and you gave me the spear—“
[dissolves into uncontrolled laughter and glee]
. . .
So they kind of slow burn into a friendship, because seriously, how heartless would your Hephaestus have to be to resist that forever?
If you asked Ares, he’d say they’re best friends. Without hesitation. Fucking best bros.
Hephaestus might be a little more gruff and reserved about it—so maybe the best part is more subtext, mmmk, but it’s there. Ares sees it.
INB4 the friend part is subtext too.
It’s fine, Ares is fluent in subtext.
INB4 changes to supertext.
“Phae—!”
“yOU BASTARD. CHANGE IT BACK.”
I’m thinking it actually moves towards bromance territory… and on Ares’ side, there’s definitely some feelings there that’re more than just friend-feelings. But his interpersonal relationships have been so negative all his life, he doesn’t really understand these feelings he has for Hephaestus. He just thinks they’re really intense best friend feelings.
And then… Hephaestus marries Aphrodite.
And it hurts Ares. It fucking stings. He actually has trouble being around Hephaestus now because there’s all these feelings he doesn’t know what to do with—he doesn’t even know why he’s feeling them. It’s this mess of pain, jealousy, bitterness.
And then Aphrodite takes interest in Ares. Initially, Ares would brush it off… like, yo, you’re my best friend’s spouse. C’mon. That’s just… no.
But quite a bit of time passes and he still can’t get over the hurt he feels over their marriage. It gets worse, even.
And then Aphrodite comes to him on earth during war, when his demeanor as a whole is significantly less restrained. He has trouble putting his guard back up, realigning himself to the “good” controlled Ares who swallows his feelings…
He tries, but struggles, and in the end… it’s another moment where he’s just… done. He’s so tired of being pushed away. So tired of not being the one people choose. And here Aphrodite is—offering this chance to be pulled closer, to be chosen in some intimate way.
He throws aside any thought of consequence and goes for it, indulging Aphrodite.
((Going to Prometheus after like…))
[“I’ve… done something really bad…”]
{“What, worse than making that one guy swallow his own severed toes?”}
[“…Okay—“]
[*scoff*]
[“—your definition of bad is really fucked up, Meaty. There was nothing wrong with that.”]
{“That was your own guy.”}
[“I told him what would happen. That’s on him, not me.”]
[sudden realization like]
[“That was weeks ago…”]
[“HAVE YOU BEEN JUDGING ME THIS WHOLE TIME?”]
((Prometheus MVP successfully distracting him from his despair))[see: the general setup in his character sheet where Athena is mentioned]
Athena stabbed him, once. It was during a duel. It was against the rules to stab him, but she didn’t get in trouble, because it was only Ares who got stabbed, and he hadn’t enough favor to justify someone so loved as Athena suffering so much as a scolding.
{“Don’t give me a bad name, Ares—you were supposed to dodge.”}
[“Yeah? Well… you were supposed to not stab me.”]
{“Any reasonable person would have dodged!”}
[“A reasonable person… would have not stabbed me.”]
{“It. was. during. a. duel. Why didn’t you dodge?!}
[*pause*]
[*blink*]
[“I wanted to see if you would stab me.”]
.
.
.
{“Are you serious?”}
[“Now I know—now I know who the stabber is… between us.”]
{“Are you—“} [“—It’s you, Athena.”]
[*look of disappointment*]
[*whisper*]
[“You’re the stabber.”]
{“...I’m going to kill you.”}
[“Well, yeah—you’re the stabber. So.”]
((Ummm, this isn’t my OTP so you’re getting lazy half efforts in the pitch.))
I’m imagining a very strained relationship between these two. They’re oil and water. Both are gods of war, but for contrasting aspects. Athena is utterly beloved on Olympus and Ares, obviously, is not. So you’ve got the favorite and the least favorite.
There was a lot of pressure as they were growing up to make them rivals. Ares was put down as a god of war and told to be successful like Athena. They always pushed her in his face as this perfect ideal to reach, but it was impossible because her aspect is literally the opposite of his. He can’t make his war look anything like hers. So hers was deemed right and his was deemed wrong. It was really frustrating, and he has a fair amount of bitterness towards her. She was kind of this physical embodiment of the general vibe of Olympians towards him—a face to the forces that pushed him down.
“...You didn’t have to always agree with them.”
On Athena’s side… if a kid is always around adults saying all this bad shit about something, it’s only natural to internalize that and accept it as truth. So she’s really been marinated in bad sentiment towards Ares. There’s also the pressure of her own position as the favorite—everyone’s eyes were always on her and glorifying her as this ideal… she couldn’t reach out to the one on the bottom without damaging that reputation or falling short of that ideal expectation.
“It would’ve pulled you down to grab my hand… I know that.”
“...but you wouldn’t have ended up on bottom. It would’ve been alright, wherever you landed. You still would’ve been loved. It wouldn’t have been a big difference to you—but even a small bit of acceptance would’ve meant everything to me.”
Nowadays, Ares accepts that he’s disliked… he lives with it, brushes it off—but he’s sad about it in some cases. Athena would be one of those cases. He wants to mend the bridge there, but it’s a struggle. They’ve never gotten along. And though he wants to mend the bridge, he hasn’t totally rid himself of bitterness towards her, so he can’t always help himself antagonizing her. He also doesn’t really know how to go about fixing something that was always broken—and he doesn't even have good relationships to model the “repair” off of… so his attempts often look awkward or annoying.
. . .
“You know what’s stupid? As a kid, I… I always wished you would save me. I knew you wouldn’t, but… I liked to imagine it. Athena: the queen bee, telling all the other hornets to fuck off… and they’d listen, ‘cause it was you.”
“Athena… teaching me something smart for when they called me stupid.”
“Athena—doing literally anything to help me.”
“Athena. Just… not stinging me anymore. Letting others do it without joining in.”
“Isn’t it sad? None of it ever came true.”
“I would’ve forgiven you so easily—I set the bar as low as I could, and I would’ve forgiven you if you’d just tried to clear it. But you never did.”
“And now? It’s too late. ‘Cause I don’t need saving anymore.”
“How can I forgive you?”
“I want to, sometimes… but the burning in my chest can’t even dream up a way of you fixing it anymore.”
. . .
> plot would likely move towards the Trojan War, since Athena fought for the Greeks and Ares for the Trojans. Preemptive OUCH because of who wins that one. Because. Of. Fucking. Strategy. *SIGH*
good game, sis.
—Late Greek Myth || my own canon—
So I have this personal canon where even though the gods can be a bit of a bummer to humans—they were much worse during Titan times and when Zeus took power, he actually favored humans because he was raised among humans, so he kept a sort of leash on Olympus, even if it didn’t always seem like it.
But then he’s taken down and the aftermath is pretty terrible for humanity.
So Prometheus—a genius Titan that has a bit of a thing against the gods—goes to the humans and shares a bunch a knowledge to increase their level of technology, possibly magic. The setting would probably have a weird Ancient Greece but futuristic vibe.
The result is humans that’re able to hold their own against gods. More than that—they’re able to completely overthrow the gods.
H o w e v e r .
They’re able to kill immortals, but they can’t kill all the gods because of a certain phenomenon—
There’s humans that share the bloodline of the gods, and when a god dies, their aspect or something similar can spontaneously emerge in one who has the blood of the gods. Primordial blood. The essence that was there at the start of the universe.
Godly power doesn’t just die—there’s a fixed amount of it in the universe, and it gets transferred or finds new hosts so to speak.
So they imprison the gods.
And anyone who has their hated blood in their veins are considered vile, dangerous, and treated as second class citizens.
definitely not inspired by attack on titan wdym
Gods can also revoke some or all of their godly powers so it can find some other being with primordial blood… but most wouldn’t do that because they’re allergic to powerlessness.
I have several ideas for starting characters in this. I’ll list my two most developed thoughts ‘cause my rambling can get convoluted pretty fast and nobody wants to read that here.
There was obviously a straight up war with the Prometheus-backed humans and the gods, but some gods sided with the humans instead of their fellow gods. Poseidon was one of these. So he became a “traitor” to help humanity win the war... but when it was over, humanity didn’t want to make an exception for their hatred of gods—they couldn’t trust that they wouldn’t be screwed over on a passing whim later—so they turned their attention to all those that had helped them. Except Prometheus, possibly?
In Poseidon’s case, this not only endangered himself, it endangered his homeland of Atlantis which was previously spared any wrath due to his aid in the war.
To diffuse this, instead of returning home and fighting against humanity... Poseidon remained on land and gave up his godly power.
This made him unable to ever return home.
I have thoughts about a young child being left behind in Atlantis when the war began, so when Poseidon gave up his powers, it was basically an abandonment of his home and his child—so that sets off this whole conflict of this kid growing up with the notion of... wow, dad chose humanity over the gods... and he chose humanity OVER ME. It’d also force the responsibility of ruling Atlantis on this kid so they were basically forced to grow up way too fast and that’s very bitterness inducing.
So there could be a dad x now grown abandoned kid arc that could even end in the kid killing Poseidon... only to have a change of heart later and possibly regret it.So going kind of Percy Jackson vibes but not really because I’ve never actually read or watched Percy Jackson... there’s plenty of possibility for partial-god OCs who have now inherited godly power but have never actually had anything to do with their godly ancestors.
Riley is one of those dangerous second class citizens with primordial blood in his veins... who becomes even more dangerous because he’s the unlucky bastard who got Poseidon’s power after it was revoked.
Why is it unlucky? Oh, nothing much... it just means the ruling powers will find him infinitely more interesting. It’s fine, really. He loves experimentation and new levels of imprisonment.
He’s not aware of the new power, though, because his containment compound is inland and he’s never actually seen the ocean. Which is a bummer. Anyone got some table salt and tap water? Knock off ocean, bitches.
Cross that one off the bucket list.
He’s also usually too drunk or high to manage the introspection you’d need to realize there’s something a little different about you, like, I don’t know, a sudden emergence of godly power.
He’s a self-proclaimed orphan after abandoning a shitty family who said he was the problem—and, yeah, he did have problems but that was beside the point. Running off on his own put him in both a better and worse place mental health wise... but, hey, at least he’s got a prolific career as a violent street rat. He’s a fairly confusing mix of charisma, brash stupidity, and more dexterity in a drunken fight than you thought possible.
He’s got the people thing all figured out:
It’s easier to trust people who hate you because with them, you know what to expect. Everyone else? They’ll get you comfortable and turn on you. Or you’ll finally figure out they were never in your corner to begin with—you just let your squishy, bleeding little vulnerable center make excuses and see what it wanted to believe. Hateful people are simple. They’re fine. Just watch your back. The complicated people? Those are the ones you push away.
(Hey, how can you watch your back if you’re drunk?)
“...tsk.”
You don’t need to attack me like this, damn.
[silence]
“I’m god. Part—Partially a god. It just... works, y’know?”
[blink]
“No. You don’t know. I can tell. You wouldn’t understand.”
His interpersonal relationships are pretty interesting.
There’s humans who hate him because of his deity—sorry, dirty—blood that shows up on a tox screen even better than drunkenness on a blood alcohol test, fun fact.
Then there’s the big-shot-of-Atlantis God—that he’s never heard of, by the way, so really looking more like a thimble of bottom shelf dishwater than a double shot of Jameson—
Okay, fine. He’d drink the dishwater booze. But that’s not a compliment on you, so don’t act like it is.
Anyway. That asshole.
That asshole hates him because of his human blood. Even better? The whole Poseidon power thing apparently hits an ever-shifting sore spot. So. Guess there’s dislike of the god side, too.
They’re lucky he doesn’t give a shit.
*I... don’t give a shit, right?*
Seems like some introspection numbing is in order.
Post Sample:
Note—you do NOT have to read this whole thing. Or any of it, for that matter. It’s my longest post. Which makes it my favorite for showcasing my writing style. You may choose for yourself if you wanna yeet after a paragraph or two or stick it out.
This was an introduction of this character into the roleplay, and we’d planned how it would go down, so they decided to make their post include Mika stumbling upon Amasa in full-blown princess mode before I’d actually written the post of him being in full blown princess mode… so there was a lot of prior things to be covered in my post before reaching the point of intersecting with their post towards the end there. It was a little convoluted at the time, but it all worked out.
It took over an hour of walking and 2 checkpoints before he obtained a meal. It was courtesy of a pub he frequented a few blocks away from his flat—run by people who seemed to care as much as one could care about anything in Asimah. Not much. The whole thing was half-assed, yet somehow overflowing with arrogance. Tired pride. Odd combination. Asimah was full of odd combinations.
The shopkeep was a sight from hell—literally, though they all were in Hades’ realm—a monstrosity in a different life, 7-foot-tall and bulky as fuck, scars covering every inch of his exposed ashy skin. He used to be a warrior—not the type of person you’d expect to be serving you muffins in the early glow of Asimah’s half-light dawn. His name was E’Challa. Irrelevant detail, sure, but Amasa made it a point to know every little bit of irrelevance he could. Maybe that made it relevant somehow.
E’Challa didn’t bat an eye at Amasa’s visible state of disarray, despite the fact he was usually well put together. That was a joke. He usually wasn’t very presentable at all; hence why the shopkeep offered no surprise when the disgraceful rodent wandered in to scrutinize his wares—embellished with far too many rips in his attire and a smattering of grime befitting a chimney sweep. His appearance did him no favors today. It did nothing today except portray him as a disorderly fool. Was it acceptable for God’s attendant to be a disorderly fool? Hades never gave a shit about such things. Would Mika be different? He should know these things. Why didn’t he know these things? What could a few years have done to make his Mika a stranger to him?
Fuck. They could do a lot. They did do a lot.
Maybe he should stop off by his flat to change.
Amasa would likely have been eaten alive by his apprehension in much the same way he’d almost been eaten by rats this morning—but E’Challa was impatient and dragged him out of his mind every time he got a little lost in it. He was quite devoted to the task, honestly. Standing, shifting irritably. Staring at the little shit he towered over. Clearing his throat. Probably imagining no less than three methods of murdering him as he innocently pointed out muffins. The bloodlust was almost palpable as he rumbled out a warning: “Just finish picking the damn muffins, Amasa.” Oh—Five different methods of killing him now. After a few more seconds he finally threatened to throw him out, hungry, on the streets if he didn’t hurry up. He was annoyed. That happened a lot. Seven methods of killing the dwarf.
The benefit of E’Challa waving an axe at his thoughts was markedly short lived—replaced by the heavy drawback of more unease as the muffin-baking bastard appeared to have the intent of waving an axe at his actual person. Amasa didn’t know why a baker would keep a battle axe under his table. Though it made an appearance every time he patron’d the pub, he never had a chance to ask about it. A nervous laugh escaped a nervous smile as Amasa quickly declared he’d gotten what he came for. Truthfully, though, he was entirely unsure how many muffins he’d managed to select. Ah, well. Nothing to be done about it. When E’Challa was that cross after you’d spent a mere two minutes in his shop… it was always best to cut your losses and run.
Leaving a handful of coin on the counter and hauling ass out the door, Amasa set on the familiar path to his flat. It was a small, one room studio largely devoid of possessions—a mattress laying crookedly on the floor was his only piece of furniture and everything else was only what he deemed necessary for basic life. He wasn’t home very often… most nights he slept on the streets or somewhere on the premise of Hades’ castle. Usually in cupboards. It was always fun to inadvertently give someone a scare.
It took about 15 minutes to reach a presentable state. Well, presentable for him. He took a shower—more of a rinse, really—and donned a fresh shirt. A simple cotton tunic, black and open in front, exposing most of his chest as always. He wasn’t going to don his armor today. It was a shoot everyone in the face before they get near you sort of day. Most days were like that. Besides the shower and shirt, he did nothing. It was a half-effort. He wore the same pair of muted pants and mud-crusted boots as before, fastening his belts haphazardly around his waist, his dagger on his thigh, and slinging his quiver, bow, and useless deadweight sword upon his back. Following that, he packed an assortment of things into a leather messenger-style bag that was entirely too large for his small frame. It would take forever to describe the eventual contents of the bag—Amasa’s paranoia was truly a sight to see, and he’d packed everything he thought he might possibly be in need of at some point.
Once satisfied in his preparations and less obvious state of disarray, Amasa ventured back out onto the streets. He had roughly two hours—perhaps a bit less—to get to his post if his plans involved any semblance of punctuality. That would’ve been ample time if it weren’t for one unfortunate detail: he was entirely unsure where Mika lived. Evidently… he’d forgotten to ask before wandering off into the night. He briefly thought of stopping off by the castle and inquiring there, but they would’ve undoubtedly coerced him into doing his former duties… so the thought was dismissed. He didn’t need extra work.
No matter. Everything would work out fine. Probably. He’d just wander around until he noticed someone who might know where Mika lived. It wasn’t a very remarkable plan, but… it was a plan. They couldn’t all be impressive.
After half an hour of indulging his terrible plan with absolutely nothing to show for it, a sound caught his attention. It was an unbearably unpleasant sound. Soul-crushing in every regard. His eyes instinctively darted around, searching for the source, until quickly settling on the black iron gates of a playground.
A young girl, probably nine or ten years old, stood wailing in the gated courtyard. Even from where he stood… she looked like trouble. Sturdy for her size, stocky, not concerned with her feminine charm like the others seemed to be. Wasn’t interested in it. She defied her stature, standing tall even through her outburst. Amasa felt the corner of his mouth upturn just a bit—just a little. After all, one could only smile so much when a child was crying. Adventurous girl, covered in all manner of childhood battle wounds. Bruises. Scraped knees. Calloused hands. She was a fighter. He so loved the little beings with spark.
Surrounding her were a few boys of a similar age… but only one in particular stood out. Their leader. Undoubtedly. He was a bit taller and seemingly a few years older—thirteen, perhaps—and his countenance just dripped arrogance. Amasa wondered how anyone could drip arrogance when they were making a girl cry… but even more than that: his curly hair ruffled up awkwardly in a way that was like a cockerel. Not a scary fighting cockerel, mind you, but one of those fancy little bantam ones with the floof on their heads. It took a special kind of stupid to seep arrogance when you were upsetting a girl and you looked like a floofy midget chicken. How could he manage it? Amasa was almost impressed. Almost.
After turning his attention away from his biased judgement of the boy, it only took a few moments to grasp the situation. Grasp what they had done to inspire blubbering over an innocent game.
The girl wanted to be a fighter because she was a fighter. There was no sense playing at domestics when there was glory to be had. How could she bear to step aside and leave it to the boys? She was just as capable. Spent just as long practicing the sword with a stick. Longer, even. And yet—the boy would not hear of it. You’re a girl, dummy. You have to do what suits you. He wanted her to be the princess. She had to be the princess so he could save her and validate his insufferable ego. He probably liked her. God—why were boys so stupid?
It only took a few seconds of listening to Floof-head belittle this girl before Amasa’s temper stirred enough to matter. It wasn’t even a little bit rational to go tear it up with schoolyard adolescents but—damn—there was no stopping him now. This was bullshit and it would not be allowed to continue.
“Oi, you brats—" Amasa started, owning every bit of his wise old age. He caught the attention of the group and they smirked—completely uncaring about the notion of being chewed out by some adult—but that was where they’d made their mistake. Amasa was an adult in number only. He had no intention of chewing them out; he just wanted their eyes as he approached them. And he put his all into approaching them. Utilizing every bit of his intrinsic speed, he darted towards the fence and vaulted over it in a swift, smooth motion.
The look on the boys’ faces was truly a sight to behold—a sudden transformation from self-satisfaction to shocked horror. They tried to scatter but Amasa was far too quick for them, grabbing Floof-head by his ridiculous floof before he could take even three frenzied steps from his original place. Meanwhile, the girl’s tears had been utterly shocked out of existence, and the other boys froze immediately—unsure how to proceed with their leader detained. Should they leave him and run? No. Loyalty won out today. They would stay, but they would be absolutely no help against the crazy guy who’d come to skin their goats.
Amasa reveled in their terrified looks for a moment, letting them imagine the worst-case scenarios that a man with a sword could engender, before finishing his sentence with a cocky grin: “—your game looks fun,” he said casually, releasing poor Floof-head and smiling bigger as he stumbled backwards, “can I play, too?”
It took several moments for the boys to gather their shattered wits from the dirt below—Floofy in particular, who likely had no idea just how perfectly his open mouth mirrored his wide eyes. Amasa was patient, giving them all the time they needed, until finally one recovered enough to speak. “We—we can’t play,” the boy stuttered, overestimating his confidence just a bit, “because… Annie won’t be the princess.”
The rational thing would’ve been to tell the crazy man to fuck off—at least, that’s what Amasa thought would be rational—but they were too spooked to deny him, apparently. Great. This would be fun. His smile widened even further. Oh, it’s on.
Hearing the news of Annie’s refusal, he raised an eyebrow and relaxed his grin to noticeable surprise—pretend, yes, but convincing nonetheless. His entire countenance had a look to it that completely sided with the boys. A look of questioning. Why would Annie do such a thing? A look of confusion. I have no idea. He donned a face that mirrored the boys’ expressions and lulled them into a false sense of security. Then Amasa’s look departed from theirs, changing into a look of determination. I will find out why. The boys inadvertently found themselves enamored as his eyes darted back and forth from the girl, to Floofy, to each of the other boys, and back to the girl, repeating the motion for several seconds until it finally started making everyone uncomfortable.
He stopped suddenly, looking as though some revelation had been gifted from Apollo himself, and nearly burst out laughing with the excitement of it. “Of course Annie won’t be the princess,” he started, mustering as much playful mockery as he could, “You told her to do what suited her. That doesn’t suit her at all!”
The boys were visibly shocked at this proclamation. It wasn’t one they were expecting, and certainly not one they would’ve come up with themselves, but the crazy man seemed so confident in his words it was hard not believe him. And yet—his words were bordering on insanity. A girl, unsuited to be a princess? Completely unreasonable. It was thoughts such as these that finally inspired little Floofy to recover, and no sooner than two seconds later he was up and ready to pick a fight.
Now, to his credit, Floof-head seemed to realize that Amasa was completely fucking with them. The others were too young to figure it out… but Floofy knew better. He’d owned every bit of his 13 years and he just knew when people were playing him for a fool. So instead of challenging Amasa’s proclamation that Annie was unsuited to be a princess, he took a different approach and proposed that everyone else was even more unsuited to be a princess—after all, none of the boys could possibly do it—so what else was there to do except make the best of an imperfect situation?
Floofy’s comeback boasted both logic and eloquence, and the boy knew it, letting his arrogance show as he adopted his own gratified smirk. He’d won. His argument was so sound it couldn’t possibly be refuted in any rational manner. And frankly, if we’re being honest, even Amasa had to admit he was impressed despite himself.
The boy would’ve won had his opponent been anyone else… but unfortunately, this wasn’t a battle of good sense. Amasa didn’t care for such battles. Logic was rarely his weapon of choice; he preferred foolery. Compassion. Throw enough love and nonsense at something and everything usually worked itself out somehow. It took Amasa a few moments to come up with a countermeasure for Floofy’s admirable rationale, but the moment a cheeky grin once again became the most prominent feature on his face… Floofy knew he was screwed.
“You’re right,” Amasa conceded, “the most suitable person should be the princess.”
This startled Floofy a bit—that smile didn’t seem like a smile of concession. Confused and wary, he pressed for more information. “What d’ya mean?”
“I’m telling you you’re right,” Amasa shot back, clearly having anticipated Floofy’s sorry state. He started to unfasten the belts that held his weapons on his back, continuing his thought as he did so, “The most suitable person should be the princess. That’s me, obviously,” he pointed to his chest, as though that would somehow make his words easier to comprehend, “I’ll be the princess.”
They really should’ve known better than to be surprised at this point, but then again, it was a ridiculous proposal. A grown man acting the fair maiden in a children’s game. Most of the kids were about ready to die in amusement at the thought of it—after they overcame their initial shock, of course—but Floofy was more horrified than anything. He opened his mouth to protest—and it was perfect, it couldn’t have been more perfect—because he opened his mouth right as Amasa was unfastening his sword.
Amasa was not about to miss such a brilliant opportunity. He tightened his grip on the scabbard and allowed his face to darken as he stared down the boy. In a fraction of a moment, his entire continence changed to something befitting an executioner. Even his voice was dark as he practically growled, “Are you planning to tell me… I’m an unsuitable princess…?”
Floofy was not planning to suggest any such thing, apparently. He was simply… concerned… that perhaps he didn’t quite look the part—you know, at present.
Even with that milder version of what he really wanted to say, the poor boy was still noticeably spooked, undoubtedly worried what that sword and its wielder might do to him. Amasa could’ve continued with the farce, but he wasn’t one for scaring children too terribly, even somewhat shitty ones like Floof-head. As such, his demeanor brightened so fast that one could question the prior darkness as a trick of the light, and he practically giggled his response: “Well, of course not! I haven’t done my hair.”
In all honesty, making him look the part was hardly a challenge. It took nearly no coaxing at all to get Annie and the boys, save Floofy, to help him with the task. Within minutes he’d gained the help of every curious child in the vicinity. Amasa fashioned a makeshift dress out of his cloak, wrapping it around himself as gracefully as he could manage, and the children brought him flowers to weave into his hair. That was the most difficult part of it—the flowers—as he wasn’t exactly experienced in the art of adorning one’s hair like a maiden… but luckily, some older girls happened by and kindly lent their aid. They even taught him the technique so he could do for himself in future.
In the end, he was a perfectly acceptable princess. His small frame served him well. Of course, the patch of hair on his chin threw everyone off a little—but he just laughed it off and said it added character… and who could argue with that?
At this point, the children were completely satisfied: the mere act of turning a man into a princess had become a story—a legend—that they’d boast about for years to come. Yet… Amasa wasn’t finished. He had every intent of playing the part. After all, he went through all the trouble of becoming a maiden—he’d be damned if he didn’t follow through to the end.
He was pretty sure it was a proverb of some sort. If you’re gonna be princess, you’d best be the greatest fucking princess you can be. Yep. It was most certainly a proverb.
So Amasa took his role more seriously than anyone; he put everything he had into it, as was his nature. It became a sort of game inside of a game. Because the kids couldn’t contain their laughter every time they caught sight of him, they adopted a challenge to see who could go the longest without laughing... and Amasa was sure to make it difficult for them.
Eventually, even Floofy softened up and joined the fun. He ended up being a knight, fighting alongside Annie, trying and failing to save Amasa from all the creatures and trouble he’d managed to get into. If you’d asked, not one of them would’ve been able to tell you how long they’d been at it. Longer than two hours, at least… and that spelled trouble for Amasa. He knew it, too, but somehow ignoring his duties completely and hoping for the best seemed preferable to the original plan—focusing as hard as he could on his duties, but not actually doing them, and obviously hoping for the best despite that. The outcome would likely be the same no matter which path he followed, so… might as well put off his worry until the last possible moment.
Unsurprisingly, Amasa didn’t want to face the moment when it finally came, but the moment itself was pretty damn tangible when Mika appeared like fucking Satan out of nowhere. The fucker snuck up on him. Not literally, of course, but Amasa wasn’t prepared and it felt like the bastard had fucking snuck up on him.
His presence was announced very awkwardly by the loud clamoring of iron as he shut the gate with about as much grace as a child learning to walk. It offered a stark contrast to Amasa’s own entrance earlier in the morning which, frankly, was cooler in just about every aspect… but Mika had done just as remarkable a job of getting everyone’s attention. Time seemed to stop as they all stared at him, wide-eyed and dazed, as though a nightmare had just encroached upon their collective dream.
At this point, Amasa had not yet succumbed to his nervousness—he was keeping it together somehow. Removing himself from the situation. Making up all these little stories in his head so he could observe any happenings while pretending he wasn’t actually a part of them. It wouldn’t last for long, but… it gave him a bit of a foundation in the meantime. A foundation that cracked a bit with every move Mika made, but a foundation nonetheless.
It was fine. No matter. Everything was going to be okay. Yes, he had totally failed his duties as an attendant. And yes—it was already well into mid-morning at this point. Maybe even early afternoon. Sure, Mika’s entire demeanor was rigid and uncomfortable and the feeling of it radiating off him was already threatening to devour Amasa’s soul. But dammit, everything was going to be fine.
Absolutely. Fine.
Absolutely fine, except for the nervous laugh that just escaped his person.
Fine, absolutely.
Oh God—he was losing it.
As much as he was starting to freak out internally, the ridiculousness of the situation helped keep him together. There was a certain surrealness to it. Amasa would’ve loved to know what exactly was going through Mika’s mind when he stumbled across him in full-blown princess mode. There was kind of a clumsiness to it—like an older brother walking in on you doing something that you knew neither of you would ever forget… but also would probably never speak of or acknowledge again.
Or even acknowledge in the first place, if Mika had anything to say about it.
“Chamberlain, we need to get a move on. We are hours late on the journey. Is... that all you’re bringing?”
Yes, Mika. I’m going on the journey as a fucking princess. All I need is my dress and fabulous hair.
He wasn’t sure exactly how long he’d stared silently at Mika after being addressed. It had to have been quite some time, though, because Amasa couldn’t figure out anything to say in response. Everything in his mind was some sort of defensive insult… and he wasn’t near stupid enough to say such things.
He was spiraling. Mika was a stranger him—there was no denying that, and looking at this strange Mika and trying to get a feel for him was maddening. Who the hell was Mika? Mika was as formal as a VIP black-tie gala in the good side of town. Stiffer than some poor bastard with tetanus. More painfully uncomfortable than explaining to Jonny that he would likely die by the morrow. And blank. So blank. Practically expressionless. Like he was some sort of porcelain doll they’d painted for a horror film. He was the fucking antithesis of Amasa. The nemesis of his attempts to keep his shit together. Mika was the thing buttering his fingers when he was trying to keep hold of soap in a waterfall.
In the end, he couldn’t think of anything to say… but the kids had started to save him. They’d realized that this guy had come to end their fun and more than a few had started to whine about it. Good. He could work with this. He could use the ridiculous energy to give him one last push before he was becalmed in nervous awkwardness—alone with Mika, the sea monster, who bludgeoned sailors with his evil monotone feelings.
Snapping his fingers and pointing to Mika was his only response—giving him a look that sort of vaguely implied acknowledgement and something like I’ve got this, just give me a minute.
He immediately burst out in narration for the kids, who were only slightly surprised, having thought that Mika’s presence had ended the game, but at the same time knowing Amasa well enough to expect such a thing. “Though the knights and townsfolk had fought valiantly… some stories don’t have happy endings,” he said ominously, quietly, but gaining momentum and speaking quicker with every new word: “The dawn’s light hit the moonstone and everyone fell silent—deadly silent. Had it been enough? Was the curse broken? No one knew. They stared at the princess. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting more—they’d done it. Hadn’t they? They must’ve. OH—” Unfastening the knot of his cloak to unravel his ‘dress’ in an impressively quick motion, and just as smoothly replacing it, hood obscuring his face, as it was meant to be worn, he spoke the next words with frantic despair, voice breaking, “they watched in horror as the curse took hold, and the princess, once kind and fair, turned into something grotesque—a specter of death! Fingers like talons reached out to the crowd, searching for victims—”
He darted towards the awed children, talons outstretched, having the goal of amusing them while also gathering his things. Upon grabbing each weapon, he refastened their respective belts within a matter of seconds—he was used to going from unarmed to battle ready in less than a minute after being Chamberlain to an impatient Hades—and offered description to tie it into the story. The specter got stronger with each new victim she claimed, gaining weapons forged from the souls of her prey. A sword. A bow. Arrows. But that wasn’t even the worst part. The worst part came last: a bloodied bag hung from the specter’s side, containing the severed heads of every kill, conscious and suffering for all eternity.
Once he’d finished gathering his things, he drew back the hood of his cloak and smiled amusedly. “Look what happened! You lot were the worst knights ever,” he teased, “I’m goin’ to find a better one.” He bobbed his head around as though looking for an alternative, and quickly settled his gaze on Mika. He didn’t look directly at his face, more just vaguely at his person, as he wasn’t ready to be completely infected by his tense energy quite yet. He motioned to Mika, “Oh! That one looks good. Strong, don’t ya think?” Amasa had every intention to poke fun at the kids until the last possible moment, so he walked backwards towards Mika and stuck out a childish tongue at Floofy, directing a playful dig at his pride: “I’m sure he would’ve saved me.”
Floofy knew better than to take anything out of Amasa’s mouth seriously—he’d learned his lesson—but he still wanted to respond to the jab. If only to have one chance at winning, at putting him in his place. So he picked up a stone and hurled it at Amasa… which caused him to learn another lesson.
Every attack against Amasa inadvertently becomes fuel for his playful non-attack attacks at you.
Catching the stone mid-flight and releasing a half-laugh, Amasa raised an eyebrow at Floofy as he continued to back away. “Well shit, you’re rubbish at throwin’, too. Oi! Maybe Annie could train you,” he held out his arm and dropped the stone, something akin to dropping a mic, and switched to a more threatening tone as he purred out half an ultimatum and a promise… “You’d best have the arm of Hercules before I get back.”
With that, everyone was satisfied with the exchange. The game hadn’t trailed off in the middle of a sentence after all, and better still… Amasa had promised to come back someday. Whether or not he would ever find himself able to keep that promise was mostly up to fate, but Amasa seemed like the type of person who’d defy the very fabric of reality to keep his promises. The kids trusted him. And that was something, too, because orphans were usually the least trusting people you’d ever find.
The kids started to scatter and Amasa whipped around to face the other direction, expecting that he was probably close to Mika at this point. He was close. Very close. Much closer than he thought and it startled him half to death. Being within two or three feet of Mika’s miserable visage wasn’t something he was prepared for, and the shock was so sudden he couldn’t help himself. He had a moment of fight or flight and leapt backwards as quick as he could. It looked bizarre. He basically dodged Mika’s demeanor as though he’d had physical tentacles squirming out of him. He’d released a subconscious screech, too, because why the fuck not? It wasn’t exactly a scream… more of a clearly freaked out uhahhhwahh that you’d say when something gross was almost touching you and you didn’t know if you could avoid it so… you just let your horror manifest in a sound.
It didn’t even take half a second for him to regret this reaction—he hadn’t even landed his dodge and he was already regretting it. True, there was nothing he could’ve done to avoid it… but that didn’t stop him from wanting to take it back. Mika would know just how spooked he was of him. What would his reaction be? Nothing pleasant, probably. Shit. Amasa was officially becalmed in a sea of nervous awkwardness.
Staring at Mika and entirely unsure what to do with himself, all he could do was laugh. A small laugh, panicky, and expressing his nervousness even more clearly than the dodging debacle of a second prior. He motioned towards the gate, wordlessly saying that he was ready to leave at any point.
The shopkeep was a sight from hell—literally, though they all were in Hades’ realm—a monstrosity in a different life, 7-foot-tall and bulky as fuck, scars covering every inch of his exposed ashy skin. He used to be a warrior—not the type of person you’d expect to be serving you muffins in the early glow of Asimah’s half-light dawn. His name was E’Challa. Irrelevant detail, sure, but Amasa made it a point to know every little bit of irrelevance he could. Maybe that made it relevant somehow.
E’Challa didn’t bat an eye at Amasa’s visible state of disarray, despite the fact he was usually well put together. That was a joke. He usually wasn’t very presentable at all; hence why the shopkeep offered no surprise when the disgraceful rodent wandered in to scrutinize his wares—embellished with far too many rips in his attire and a smattering of grime befitting a chimney sweep. His appearance did him no favors today. It did nothing today except portray him as a disorderly fool. Was it acceptable for God’s attendant to be a disorderly fool? Hades never gave a shit about such things. Would Mika be different? He should know these things. Why didn’t he know these things? What could a few years have done to make his Mika a stranger to him?
Fuck. They could do a lot. They did do a lot.
Maybe he should stop off by his flat to change.
Amasa would likely have been eaten alive by his apprehension in much the same way he’d almost been eaten by rats this morning—but E’Challa was impatient and dragged him out of his mind every time he got a little lost in it. He was quite devoted to the task, honestly. Standing, shifting irritably. Staring at the little shit he towered over. Clearing his throat. Probably imagining no less than three methods of murdering him as he innocently pointed out muffins. The bloodlust was almost palpable as he rumbled out a warning: “Just finish picking the damn muffins, Amasa.” Oh—Five different methods of killing him now. After a few more seconds he finally threatened to throw him out, hungry, on the streets if he didn’t hurry up. He was annoyed. That happened a lot. Seven methods of killing the dwarf.
The benefit of E’Challa waving an axe at his thoughts was markedly short lived—replaced by the heavy drawback of more unease as the muffin-baking bastard appeared to have the intent of waving an axe at his actual person. Amasa didn’t know why a baker would keep a battle axe under his table. Though it made an appearance every time he patron’d the pub, he never had a chance to ask about it. A nervous laugh escaped a nervous smile as Amasa quickly declared he’d gotten what he came for. Truthfully, though, he was entirely unsure how many muffins he’d managed to select. Ah, well. Nothing to be done about it. When E’Challa was that cross after you’d spent a mere two minutes in his shop… it was always best to cut your losses and run.
Leaving a handful of coin on the counter and hauling ass out the door, Amasa set on the familiar path to his flat. It was a small, one room studio largely devoid of possessions—a mattress laying crookedly on the floor was his only piece of furniture and everything else was only what he deemed necessary for basic life. He wasn’t home very often… most nights he slept on the streets or somewhere on the premise of Hades’ castle. Usually in cupboards. It was always fun to inadvertently give someone a scare.
It took about 15 minutes to reach a presentable state. Well, presentable for him. He took a shower—more of a rinse, really—and donned a fresh shirt. A simple cotton tunic, black and open in front, exposing most of his chest as always. He wasn’t going to don his armor today. It was a shoot everyone in the face before they get near you sort of day. Most days were like that. Besides the shower and shirt, he did nothing. It was a half-effort. He wore the same pair of muted pants and mud-crusted boots as before, fastening his belts haphazardly around his waist, his dagger on his thigh, and slinging his quiver, bow, and useless deadweight sword upon his back. Following that, he packed an assortment of things into a leather messenger-style bag that was entirely too large for his small frame. It would take forever to describe the eventual contents of the bag—Amasa’s paranoia was truly a sight to see, and he’d packed everything he thought he might possibly be in need of at some point.
Once satisfied in his preparations and less obvious state of disarray, Amasa ventured back out onto the streets. He had roughly two hours—perhaps a bit less—to get to his post if his plans involved any semblance of punctuality. That would’ve been ample time if it weren’t for one unfortunate detail: he was entirely unsure where Mika lived. Evidently… he’d forgotten to ask before wandering off into the night. He briefly thought of stopping off by the castle and inquiring there, but they would’ve undoubtedly coerced him into doing his former duties… so the thought was dismissed. He didn’t need extra work.
No matter. Everything would work out fine. Probably. He’d just wander around until he noticed someone who might know where Mika lived. It wasn’t a very remarkable plan, but… it was a plan. They couldn’t all be impressive.
After half an hour of indulging his terrible plan with absolutely nothing to show for it, a sound caught his attention. It was an unbearably unpleasant sound. Soul-crushing in every regard. His eyes instinctively darted around, searching for the source, until quickly settling on the black iron gates of a playground.
A young girl, probably nine or ten years old, stood wailing in the gated courtyard. Even from where he stood… she looked like trouble. Sturdy for her size, stocky, not concerned with her feminine charm like the others seemed to be. Wasn’t interested in it. She defied her stature, standing tall even through her outburst. Amasa felt the corner of his mouth upturn just a bit—just a little. After all, one could only smile so much when a child was crying. Adventurous girl, covered in all manner of childhood battle wounds. Bruises. Scraped knees. Calloused hands. She was a fighter. He so loved the little beings with spark.
Surrounding her were a few boys of a similar age… but only one in particular stood out. Their leader. Undoubtedly. He was a bit taller and seemingly a few years older—thirteen, perhaps—and his countenance just dripped arrogance. Amasa wondered how anyone could drip arrogance when they were making a girl cry… but even more than that: his curly hair ruffled up awkwardly in a way that was like a cockerel. Not a scary fighting cockerel, mind you, but one of those fancy little bantam ones with the floof on their heads. It took a special kind of stupid to seep arrogance when you were upsetting a girl and you looked like a floofy midget chicken. How could he manage it? Amasa was almost impressed. Almost.
After turning his attention away from his biased judgement of the boy, it only took a few moments to grasp the situation. Grasp what they had done to inspire blubbering over an innocent game.
The girl wanted to be a fighter because she was a fighter. There was no sense playing at domestics when there was glory to be had. How could she bear to step aside and leave it to the boys? She was just as capable. Spent just as long practicing the sword with a stick. Longer, even. And yet—the boy would not hear of it. You’re a girl, dummy. You have to do what suits you. He wanted her to be the princess. She had to be the princess so he could save her and validate his insufferable ego. He probably liked her. God—why were boys so stupid?
It only took a few seconds of listening to Floof-head belittle this girl before Amasa’s temper stirred enough to matter. It wasn’t even a little bit rational to go tear it up with schoolyard adolescents but—damn—there was no stopping him now. This was bullshit and it would not be allowed to continue.
“Oi, you brats—" Amasa started, owning every bit of his wise old age. He caught the attention of the group and they smirked—completely uncaring about the notion of being chewed out by some adult—but that was where they’d made their mistake. Amasa was an adult in number only. He had no intention of chewing them out; he just wanted their eyes as he approached them. And he put his all into approaching them. Utilizing every bit of his intrinsic speed, he darted towards the fence and vaulted over it in a swift, smooth motion.
The look on the boys’ faces was truly a sight to behold—a sudden transformation from self-satisfaction to shocked horror. They tried to scatter but Amasa was far too quick for them, grabbing Floof-head by his ridiculous floof before he could take even three frenzied steps from his original place. Meanwhile, the girl’s tears had been utterly shocked out of existence, and the other boys froze immediately—unsure how to proceed with their leader detained. Should they leave him and run? No. Loyalty won out today. They would stay, but they would be absolutely no help against the crazy guy who’d come to skin their goats.
Amasa reveled in their terrified looks for a moment, letting them imagine the worst-case scenarios that a man with a sword could engender, before finishing his sentence with a cocky grin: “—your game looks fun,” he said casually, releasing poor Floof-head and smiling bigger as he stumbled backwards, “can I play, too?”
It took several moments for the boys to gather their shattered wits from the dirt below—Floofy in particular, who likely had no idea just how perfectly his open mouth mirrored his wide eyes. Amasa was patient, giving them all the time they needed, until finally one recovered enough to speak. “We—we can’t play,” the boy stuttered, overestimating his confidence just a bit, “because… Annie won’t be the princess.”
The rational thing would’ve been to tell the crazy man to fuck off—at least, that’s what Amasa thought would be rational—but they were too spooked to deny him, apparently. Great. This would be fun. His smile widened even further. Oh, it’s on.
Hearing the news of Annie’s refusal, he raised an eyebrow and relaxed his grin to noticeable surprise—pretend, yes, but convincing nonetheless. His entire countenance had a look to it that completely sided with the boys. A look of questioning. Why would Annie do such a thing? A look of confusion. I have no idea. He donned a face that mirrored the boys’ expressions and lulled them into a false sense of security. Then Amasa’s look departed from theirs, changing into a look of determination. I will find out why. The boys inadvertently found themselves enamored as his eyes darted back and forth from the girl, to Floofy, to each of the other boys, and back to the girl, repeating the motion for several seconds until it finally started making everyone uncomfortable.
He stopped suddenly, looking as though some revelation had been gifted from Apollo himself, and nearly burst out laughing with the excitement of it. “Of course Annie won’t be the princess,” he started, mustering as much playful mockery as he could, “You told her to do what suited her. That doesn’t suit her at all!”
The boys were visibly shocked at this proclamation. It wasn’t one they were expecting, and certainly not one they would’ve come up with themselves, but the crazy man seemed so confident in his words it was hard not believe him. And yet—his words were bordering on insanity. A girl, unsuited to be a princess? Completely unreasonable. It was thoughts such as these that finally inspired little Floofy to recover, and no sooner than two seconds later he was up and ready to pick a fight.
Now, to his credit, Floof-head seemed to realize that Amasa was completely fucking with them. The others were too young to figure it out… but Floofy knew better. He’d owned every bit of his 13 years and he just knew when people were playing him for a fool. So instead of challenging Amasa’s proclamation that Annie was unsuited to be a princess, he took a different approach and proposed that everyone else was even more unsuited to be a princess—after all, none of the boys could possibly do it—so what else was there to do except make the best of an imperfect situation?
Floofy’s comeback boasted both logic and eloquence, and the boy knew it, letting his arrogance show as he adopted his own gratified smirk. He’d won. His argument was so sound it couldn’t possibly be refuted in any rational manner. And frankly, if we’re being honest, even Amasa had to admit he was impressed despite himself.
The boy would’ve won had his opponent been anyone else… but unfortunately, this wasn’t a battle of good sense. Amasa didn’t care for such battles. Logic was rarely his weapon of choice; he preferred foolery. Compassion. Throw enough love and nonsense at something and everything usually worked itself out somehow. It took Amasa a few moments to come up with a countermeasure for Floofy’s admirable rationale, but the moment a cheeky grin once again became the most prominent feature on his face… Floofy knew he was screwed.
“You’re right,” Amasa conceded, “the most suitable person should be the princess.”
This startled Floofy a bit—that smile didn’t seem like a smile of concession. Confused and wary, he pressed for more information. “What d’ya mean?”
“I’m telling you you’re right,” Amasa shot back, clearly having anticipated Floofy’s sorry state. He started to unfasten the belts that held his weapons on his back, continuing his thought as he did so, “The most suitable person should be the princess. That’s me, obviously,” he pointed to his chest, as though that would somehow make his words easier to comprehend, “I’ll be the princess.”
They really should’ve known better than to be surprised at this point, but then again, it was a ridiculous proposal. A grown man acting the fair maiden in a children’s game. Most of the kids were about ready to die in amusement at the thought of it—after they overcame their initial shock, of course—but Floofy was more horrified than anything. He opened his mouth to protest—and it was perfect, it couldn’t have been more perfect—because he opened his mouth right as Amasa was unfastening his sword.
Amasa was not about to miss such a brilliant opportunity. He tightened his grip on the scabbard and allowed his face to darken as he stared down the boy. In a fraction of a moment, his entire continence changed to something befitting an executioner. Even his voice was dark as he practically growled, “Are you planning to tell me… I’m an unsuitable princess…?”
Floofy was not planning to suggest any such thing, apparently. He was simply… concerned… that perhaps he didn’t quite look the part—you know, at present.
Even with that milder version of what he really wanted to say, the poor boy was still noticeably spooked, undoubtedly worried what that sword and its wielder might do to him. Amasa could’ve continued with the farce, but he wasn’t one for scaring children too terribly, even somewhat shitty ones like Floof-head. As such, his demeanor brightened so fast that one could question the prior darkness as a trick of the light, and he practically giggled his response: “Well, of course not! I haven’t done my hair.”
In all honesty, making him look the part was hardly a challenge. It took nearly no coaxing at all to get Annie and the boys, save Floofy, to help him with the task. Within minutes he’d gained the help of every curious child in the vicinity. Amasa fashioned a makeshift dress out of his cloak, wrapping it around himself as gracefully as he could manage, and the children brought him flowers to weave into his hair. That was the most difficult part of it—the flowers—as he wasn’t exactly experienced in the art of adorning one’s hair like a maiden… but luckily, some older girls happened by and kindly lent their aid. They even taught him the technique so he could do for himself in future.
In the end, he was a perfectly acceptable princess. His small frame served him well. Of course, the patch of hair on his chin threw everyone off a little—but he just laughed it off and said it added character… and who could argue with that?
At this point, the children were completely satisfied: the mere act of turning a man into a princess had become a story—a legend—that they’d boast about for years to come. Yet… Amasa wasn’t finished. He had every intent of playing the part. After all, he went through all the trouble of becoming a maiden—he’d be damned if he didn’t follow through to the end.
He was pretty sure it was a proverb of some sort. If you’re gonna be princess, you’d best be the greatest fucking princess you can be. Yep. It was most certainly a proverb.
So Amasa took his role more seriously than anyone; he put everything he had into it, as was his nature. It became a sort of game inside of a game. Because the kids couldn’t contain their laughter every time they caught sight of him, they adopted a challenge to see who could go the longest without laughing... and Amasa was sure to make it difficult for them.
Eventually, even Floofy softened up and joined the fun. He ended up being a knight, fighting alongside Annie, trying and failing to save Amasa from all the creatures and trouble he’d managed to get into. If you’d asked, not one of them would’ve been able to tell you how long they’d been at it. Longer than two hours, at least… and that spelled trouble for Amasa. He knew it, too, but somehow ignoring his duties completely and hoping for the best seemed preferable to the original plan—focusing as hard as he could on his duties, but not actually doing them, and obviously hoping for the best despite that. The outcome would likely be the same no matter which path he followed, so… might as well put off his worry until the last possible moment.
Unsurprisingly, Amasa didn’t want to face the moment when it finally came, but the moment itself was pretty damn tangible when Mika appeared like fucking Satan out of nowhere. The fucker snuck up on him. Not literally, of course, but Amasa wasn’t prepared and it felt like the bastard had fucking snuck up on him.
His presence was announced very awkwardly by the loud clamoring of iron as he shut the gate with about as much grace as a child learning to walk. It offered a stark contrast to Amasa’s own entrance earlier in the morning which, frankly, was cooler in just about every aspect… but Mika had done just as remarkable a job of getting everyone’s attention. Time seemed to stop as they all stared at him, wide-eyed and dazed, as though a nightmare had just encroached upon their collective dream.
At this point, Amasa had not yet succumbed to his nervousness—he was keeping it together somehow. Removing himself from the situation. Making up all these little stories in his head so he could observe any happenings while pretending he wasn’t actually a part of them. It wouldn’t last for long, but… it gave him a bit of a foundation in the meantime. A foundation that cracked a bit with every move Mika made, but a foundation nonetheless.
It was fine. No matter. Everything was going to be okay. Yes, he had totally failed his duties as an attendant. And yes—it was already well into mid-morning at this point. Maybe even early afternoon. Sure, Mika’s entire demeanor was rigid and uncomfortable and the feeling of it radiating off him was already threatening to devour Amasa’s soul. But dammit, everything was going to be fine.
Absolutely. Fine.
Absolutely fine, except for the nervous laugh that just escaped his person.
Fine, absolutely.
Oh God—he was losing it.
As much as he was starting to freak out internally, the ridiculousness of the situation helped keep him together. There was a certain surrealness to it. Amasa would’ve loved to know what exactly was going through Mika’s mind when he stumbled across him in full-blown princess mode. There was kind of a clumsiness to it—like an older brother walking in on you doing something that you knew neither of you would ever forget… but also would probably never speak of or acknowledge again.
Or even acknowledge in the first place, if Mika had anything to say about it.
“Chamberlain, we need to get a move on. We are hours late on the journey. Is... that all you’re bringing?”
Yes, Mika. I’m going on the journey as a fucking princess. All I need is my dress and fabulous hair.
He wasn’t sure exactly how long he’d stared silently at Mika after being addressed. It had to have been quite some time, though, because Amasa couldn’t figure out anything to say in response. Everything in his mind was some sort of defensive insult… and he wasn’t near stupid enough to say such things.
He was spiraling. Mika was a stranger him—there was no denying that, and looking at this strange Mika and trying to get a feel for him was maddening. Who the hell was Mika? Mika was as formal as a VIP black-tie gala in the good side of town. Stiffer than some poor bastard with tetanus. More painfully uncomfortable than explaining to Jonny that he would likely die by the morrow. And blank. So blank. Practically expressionless. Like he was some sort of porcelain doll they’d painted for a horror film. He was the fucking antithesis of Amasa. The nemesis of his attempts to keep his shit together. Mika was the thing buttering his fingers when he was trying to keep hold of soap in a waterfall.
In the end, he couldn’t think of anything to say… but the kids had started to save him. They’d realized that this guy had come to end their fun and more than a few had started to whine about it. Good. He could work with this. He could use the ridiculous energy to give him one last push before he was becalmed in nervous awkwardness—alone with Mika, the sea monster, who bludgeoned sailors with his evil monotone feelings.
Snapping his fingers and pointing to Mika was his only response—giving him a look that sort of vaguely implied acknowledgement and something like I’ve got this, just give me a minute.
He immediately burst out in narration for the kids, who were only slightly surprised, having thought that Mika’s presence had ended the game, but at the same time knowing Amasa well enough to expect such a thing. “Though the knights and townsfolk had fought valiantly… some stories don’t have happy endings,” he said ominously, quietly, but gaining momentum and speaking quicker with every new word: “The dawn’s light hit the moonstone and everyone fell silent—deadly silent. Had it been enough? Was the curse broken? No one knew. They stared at the princess. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting more—they’d done it. Hadn’t they? They must’ve. OH—” Unfastening the knot of his cloak to unravel his ‘dress’ in an impressively quick motion, and just as smoothly replacing it, hood obscuring his face, as it was meant to be worn, he spoke the next words with frantic despair, voice breaking, “they watched in horror as the curse took hold, and the princess, once kind and fair, turned into something grotesque—a specter of death! Fingers like talons reached out to the crowd, searching for victims—”
He darted towards the awed children, talons outstretched, having the goal of amusing them while also gathering his things. Upon grabbing each weapon, he refastened their respective belts within a matter of seconds—he was used to going from unarmed to battle ready in less than a minute after being Chamberlain to an impatient Hades—and offered description to tie it into the story. The specter got stronger with each new victim she claimed, gaining weapons forged from the souls of her prey. A sword. A bow. Arrows. But that wasn’t even the worst part. The worst part came last: a bloodied bag hung from the specter’s side, containing the severed heads of every kill, conscious and suffering for all eternity.
Once he’d finished gathering his things, he drew back the hood of his cloak and smiled amusedly. “Look what happened! You lot were the worst knights ever,” he teased, “I’m goin’ to find a better one.” He bobbed his head around as though looking for an alternative, and quickly settled his gaze on Mika. He didn’t look directly at his face, more just vaguely at his person, as he wasn’t ready to be completely infected by his tense energy quite yet. He motioned to Mika, “Oh! That one looks good. Strong, don’t ya think?” Amasa had every intention to poke fun at the kids until the last possible moment, so he walked backwards towards Mika and stuck out a childish tongue at Floofy, directing a playful dig at his pride: “I’m sure he would’ve saved me.”
Floofy knew better than to take anything out of Amasa’s mouth seriously—he’d learned his lesson—but he still wanted to respond to the jab. If only to have one chance at winning, at putting him in his place. So he picked up a stone and hurled it at Amasa… which caused him to learn another lesson.
Every attack against Amasa inadvertently becomes fuel for his playful non-attack attacks at you.
Catching the stone mid-flight and releasing a half-laugh, Amasa raised an eyebrow at Floofy as he continued to back away. “Well shit, you’re rubbish at throwin’, too. Oi! Maybe Annie could train you,” he held out his arm and dropped the stone, something akin to dropping a mic, and switched to a more threatening tone as he purred out half an ultimatum and a promise… “You’d best have the arm of Hercules before I get back.”
With that, everyone was satisfied with the exchange. The game hadn’t trailed off in the middle of a sentence after all, and better still… Amasa had promised to come back someday. Whether or not he would ever find himself able to keep that promise was mostly up to fate, but Amasa seemed like the type of person who’d defy the very fabric of reality to keep his promises. The kids trusted him. And that was something, too, because orphans were usually the least trusting people you’d ever find.
The kids started to scatter and Amasa whipped around to face the other direction, expecting that he was probably close to Mika at this point. He was close. Very close. Much closer than he thought and it startled him half to death. Being within two or three feet of Mika’s miserable visage wasn’t something he was prepared for, and the shock was so sudden he couldn’t help himself. He had a moment of fight or flight and leapt backwards as quick as he could. It looked bizarre. He basically dodged Mika’s demeanor as though he’d had physical tentacles squirming out of him. He’d released a subconscious screech, too, because why the fuck not? It wasn’t exactly a scream… more of a clearly freaked out uhahhhwahh that you’d say when something gross was almost touching you and you didn’t know if you could avoid it so… you just let your horror manifest in a sound.
It didn’t even take half a second for him to regret this reaction—he hadn’t even landed his dodge and he was already regretting it. True, there was nothing he could’ve done to avoid it… but that didn’t stop him from wanting to take it back. Mika would know just how spooked he was of him. What would his reaction be? Nothing pleasant, probably. Shit. Amasa was officially becalmed in a sea of nervous awkwardness.
Staring at Mika and entirely unsure what to do with himself, all he could do was laugh. A small laugh, panicky, and expressing his nervousness even more clearly than the dodging debacle of a second prior. He motioned towards the gate, wordlessly saying that he was ready to leave at any point.