He had it in spades. Ares watched the writhing crowd, basking in all the raw and bloody emotion their influence brought to the surface. Those primal urges, those base desires, all welled beneath their skin as dark and bloody as any tangible bruise. Ares was pleased with how easily his son deepened those wounds, manipulating them to his own ends; he knew, too, that Aphrodite herself would have been proud, being herself quite fond of manipulation in all its shades, subtle and otherwise.
"Well done," Ares said, his voice booming across the fields. His burnished gaze swept over the battle ground, surveying the carnage already created, envisioning that yet to come. In the wake of his son's influence, he felt the seeds of cowardice he'd planted growing, bearing sweet fruit. Steel flashed, gouts of blood glowing bright in the wake of every slash and thrust. The sounds of death were like a hymn, a prayer to the gods who walked unseen among the faithful.