Madness (Narrative)
(Takes place simultaneously with this thread.) (Warning: Slight gore)
"I'm not going to stop, Artemis. ... ... ...I wish you would just shut up."
"..."
"Don't give me that look. I'm tired of you giving me that look."
'You should rip her eyes out.'
"I should."
'See if she's such a bitch then.'
"That won't stop her from talking though."
'Break her jaw.'
"I already thrust a spear through her throat."
'I'm out of ideas then.'
"I'm never out of ideas," Moros spoke with a chuckle, looking to the nude body of Artemis impaled upon her own spear.
Artemis didn't speak. She couldn't speak; she was dead.
That didn't stop the three from having a conversation, however. Moros, the voice that had taken residence in his mind ever since Tartarus, and the slain Olympian princess.
"Maybe I will rip out your eyes. I'm tired of you looking at me like that."
"..."
'Like she's better than you...'
"You're dead," and with it Moros spat a mouthful of saliva on Artemis' face. The three were standing in front of Epidaurus, the home of Asklepios, son of Apollo and the famed huntress' nephew. Erebos was here. Moros would go in, but momentarily. First he had an annoyance to take care of. "I'm tired of hearing you complain. If you didn't want to be skewered you should have fought harder. Or, not fought at all."
"..."
"I don't care if it chafes!"
"..."
"You're just lucky you don't have to smell yourself. You're starting to reek, Princess."
'Like Cerberus' ass.'
Moros laughed, "You'd better be careful. Keep making fun of her and she'll come after you and... fall short."
"..."
"No, YOU shut up!!" Moros raged, letting go of the center of the spear to lace his hand around Artemis' throat. Eyes bulged and teeth bared, with the tall, dark god squeezing his fingers against her already bruised and mutilated skin. "You!" he screamed, "YOU!! ... ..."
"..."
His fingers removed from her throat a few moments later, albeit slowly. Moros kept his eyes on the slain goddess, lips curled in a jagged sneer. The spear had skewered her completely through, piercing between her thighs, through all of her internal organs and coming out through her lips. Artemis' head was tilted far back to allow for this, with a few teeth likely having been chipped in the process. Her body was stripped naked, spattered here and there with dried blood, her hair especially. Her arms were above her, wrists tied at the very tip of the spear. Her ankles were bound at the bottom. Her abdomen had been sliced vertically, allowing Moros to reach a hand in to grasp the spear inside, to carry and wield her single-handedly if need be, intestines hanging out, dangling around his hand with every step.
But this wasn't about Artemis. It was about Erebos. Erebos and Moros. Doom, and Darkness.
Erebos had been slain, and for a time darkness was gone from the world. For the majority of that Moros had been a captive in Tartarus, unaware of the happenings outside that hellish pit. In the time he'd been free he'd become aware almost instantly, yet the chance to confront his father, the chance for a conversation hadn't presented itself. Not until now.
A conversation about what, though? A reconciliation? They fought for the same reasons, likely, but with different methods. Much different methods. Perhaps an outright mock? Moros had lost to Zeus as well, but his had been much grander in scale, and much closer than Erebos' attempt likely was. He knew nothing of it other than that Erebos had fallen to Zeus, that bit Akheron had filled him in on, but with how close Moros had come, any closer would have meant victory. That, by default, meant he'd exceeded his father in strength. Now all he had to do was exceed Zeus.
In truth Moros had come here not entirely knowing how a conversation would play out. He had simply come, that being the extent of his plan. He, himself and Artemis. Two against one against one, but at least that left the odds slightly tilted in his favor.
Epidaurus was a simple gathering of several humble buildings. Moros approached the entrance of what appeared to be the main of them. He stepped through, dark eyes casting a glance to a pair of attendants talking among themselves. The stare remained for several long moments, seconds passing before the pair ceased their discussion, catching sight of the dark form of seven feet which had so silently entered. Moros, and the battle standard he held with one hand, a spear with a grown woman pierced through. Their faces went a deathly pale.
"Erebos," he spoke in a low, heavy voice.
"Th-there is to be no v-violence here!" The man's heart raced, beating like a hummingbird against his chest. He grabbed the woman quickly on the shoulder, whispering with haste, eyes never peeling from Moros or his sick puppet, "Go to him..." There was a moment of hesitation, then a second before the female attendant slipped off, face white as a sheet as she dashed down another hallway.
Moros took several slow, weighted steps forward, hair hanging forward and eyes boring down upon the frightened attendant as if meaning to kill him by stare alone. By the time the dark god reached the smaller man, a form of five and a half feet at most, Asklepios' attendant was violently shaking. It was then that something caught Doom's eye. A note? A rather fancy note, which the shaking man was holding in his hand. Golden parchment. Moros' injured right arm was slow to raise, very slow, but he had the feeling his acquaintance wasn't in any sort of rush. Slowly it reached up and snatched the golden notice from his hand.
And then Moros read it.
And then a pause. And then a grin.
'Ethon, Akheron...' he called out to his brothers, eyes positively alight with glee. 'It seems we've been invited to a party. ... ...Be sure to wear your Sunday best.'
A change of plans. Erebos would wait.
"Th-that's... tha-that's for Asklepios... Y-you can't-"
Moros cast a glance to the quivering man before him. A glance, followed by a lean down. One forehead pressed against another. A curtain of long ebony hair blocking out vision of anything but the dark god's face. Deep, malicious eyes. Bared white teeth.