Followers and fans that would die if an album came out later than intended. Check.
Followers and fans that signed away their entities to protect and die for the band. A little Fight Club, but check.
Blood appearing out of nowhere. ...no check. That was just. No way Phoebe could handle it. Not really, as she stood and stared at a rather large pool of it, then at a Gear, then back to it, and down to her clean white heels, which had stepped in it. Oh Khaos, no, screw this.
But when her attention was finally called to the room, her head turned sharply, caught her granddaughter's face, and nothing else in the world mattered.
She strode across the room as if she was giving a tour back at the Louvre, ages upon ages ago, and stopped mere inches from it, appraising it. Eyes traveled over the brutality of the scene. The guts and entrails stood out, definitely, but it didn't disturb her. No, not much in art could surprise her very much, but the face of Artemis...well, it was intense. She could see it in her head. She could hear her returning to Olympus with her huntresses and the body, explaining the thrill of the hunt, blood still stained upon her hands and naked chest. It would be a grand celebration, for they would have also brought stags and other male creatures of the hunt. Fires would burn long into the night, perhaps it would be a sacrifice in the name of her father, the ruler of them all. Perhaps in the name of her mother, so lesser-known and so hated by Hera. But that wouldn't matter to Artemis, who fiercely defended her family against the wrath of man and deity alike.
After all, Niobe's children had been slayed by her and her twin. Hera would have been a damn fool to say it was untoward to have Leto visit. On one hand, it wasn't her fault that Zeus sought other attention, and on the other, it really quite was. No god could tolerate her frigid words and her temper tantrums, really. She could see her granddaughter bringing a slew of swans in for a feast. No, her family was proud, and not to be brought down, not even by Zeus himself. Her daughter had turned to a quail to escape his advances, only to turn into a free floating island to escape Poseidon.
Time had passed. She had not forgotten. She would never confront her nephews on this, however. That was the way of things between gods and their kind. They ate their own. They birthed throughout time. Only Phoebe remained faithful to her husband. Only Hestia and Artemis remained chaste. Perhaps another would decide to, down the line, but she was never to be remembered.
"I would love to see you do one of her and a stag, preferably being ripped apart by hunting dogs."
Unexpected from her? Yes, definitely. But the myths of her granddaughter deserved more than what she had been getting this century, and anyway to have an artist detail more was an extraordinary thing to have happen.