| Official (Tag: Hades) |
[27 Apr 2008|01:24am] |
There was one thing, only one proper thing, to do with a corpse.
Zeus dressed for the occasion: black suit, charcoal shirt, gray tie, clean-shaven, and loafers that caught the sun with their shine. It was a closed casket burial, and Zeus did not arrange a service. No one else at the grave site was in attendance but he himself and a priest who said a few words from the Westerner's black book. Zeus snorted when the priest mentioned something about eternal reward, and earned a glare from the mortal. The King of the Gods smirked back. Eternal reward, indeed.
Hermes should have sent word to Hades for this. Hermes should have brought the 'invitation' to his brother. But the boy was gone off again, in his own irritating fashion. It seemed that even without his precious cap, Hermes had a way of making himself invisible whenever Zeus wanted him around. Irritating. Not enough for Zeus to care one way or the other. But still, irritating.
When the priest had made his arcane signs over the grave and spoken his arcane Latin - poorly, Zeus could add with some authority - he left Zeus at the grave. Mortal hands lowered the casket into the earth and Zeus himself dropped the first handful of dirt over the wooden box. It felt less satisfying than the King of the Gods wanted it to. In truth, nothing about this whole affair was satisfying. Wisest, perhaps, the way he had concluded the whole war affair... But hardly to his liking.
Dusting his hands absently, Zeus stepped back and watched as the workers began shoveling dirt into the grave. It would take some time for them to do it this way, but apparently they weren't allowed to bring their heavy machinery to the site while the "mourner" watched. It did lack a measure of style, Zeus granted. Heaving a sigh, Zeus waited until the workers were well into their labor, then finally did what he knew he needed to. By all the gods, this was the last conversation he wanted to have with his brother for a while.
"Hades," he grumbled under his breath. "A word in your ear."
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| Stagger (Ares) |
[27 Apr 2008|10:39pm] |
The <ding> of the elevator when it reached ground floor was as loud as one of those annoying temple gongs used too many times in too many temples of Japan. Fools, these Japanese. Blood called louder than sound, and any god knew this truth. Why their followers did not, Arianrhod couldn't say. Her hand pressed against the door when it tried to close again, and she pulled herself finally out of the metal room and onto the marble floor of the hotel lobby. Now that the adrenaline was fading, Ari felt just exactly how hard those blows had been. Gwydyon didn't ever pull punches these days. He used to... to a degree. He used to be kinder. It shouldn't have bothered her, that epithet he flung at her back when she left. Harlot. No, it shouldn't have bothered her, he who found too many useless pleasures in useless whores. He was the harlot. Not she.
Not she. The dim hotel lights gave way to garish painted neon in the midnight Tokyo streets. She blinked, rubbed at her head, and stumbled onto the street. Her goal was Olympus. Apollo's temple. But the jump from the mortal plane to the Greek Quarters Above seemed too high a leap for her. Her head was ringing, her back felt like Gwydyon had come two centimeters close to breaking her spine, and suddenly her dinner decided to reappear. Yes. Right on a tourist's shoe. Shame hurled her away from that club-going twenty-something before he decided he wanted retribution on a goddess. When she found herself again, it was on the cement retainer for a large flowerbed.
The air was blessedly cool in the evening, but not cool enough to stifle the raging fire in her back or at the back of her head. Gingerly, Arian set her fingers against her scalp and drew her hand to her eyes. No blood. It was a wonder there was no blood. Sucking breath, she leaned forward, hands now grasping the cement beside her, and tried to stay still.
Two dark boots, stained with what suspiciously smelled like blood, came into her view.
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| Royally Fucked (Tag: Gwydyon, Apollo, Sekhmet) |
[27 Apr 2008|11:48pm] |
Cardiff, Wales.
The capital. The strongest, most beloved city of these people, and Gwydyon was about to learn a lesson - that Set could reach him, even here. He'd spent an hour wandering through the city with a smile on his face. Simply strolling. Enjoying the view. It was really just like any other city, any other capital, though with perhaps too many Welshmen in it. Not enough niggers for Set's liking. Not enough zebra-striped shields or grape soda, or even a single poster for Sanford & Son on a single side of a single bus that a black man would surely be driving. No muggings. Nobody walking around with gold teeth to match their gold rings, which they most likely stole. Just a bunch of crackers with tiny fucking dicks.
( To say he was bitter might have been an understatement. )
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