Less like a God and more like a force of Nature, Shango is the God of fire and lightning. One of the seven African powers and the adopted son of Yemoja, Shango was the most powerful and mighty of their pantheon. Because nothing is more fearsome and great than lightning. With Shango's ax at his side, he protected his followers with mighty bolts of lightning that punished the wicked. To Yemoja's protector of women, Shango was more of a mentor to men. His mission was to uphold the ideals of men and masculinity - strength, virtue, honor, justice, and loyalty - and make sure that they make Africa glorious. Though, Shango was known as a party boy; a womanizer that loved to eat as much food was set in front of him.

It was actually believed that Shango died right before the Colossus was built. His mighty palace in the center of Yoruba crashed with a mighty bolt of lightning and Shango disappeared. However, he survived by ascending to heaven, and then he returned once the seal on the Yoruban pantheon went up. Ever since the Colossus went up, Shango's been... around. He isn't exactly fond of the whole working a nine to five type deal to make a living, he's a king! If he doesn't have it all handed to him... then, well, he'll be fine with nothing. He usually hangs around the Gods, usually appearing at complete random on sidewalks in Seattle, playing the drums. He didn't originally do it for money but since so many mortals are so willing to throw their money away he might as well give it to Charity, the people who need it. Shango's been mostly couch surfing and womanizing his way from place to place. Hoping for the day the Gods return to power.

Raijin, born from the rotting corpse of his mother Izanami, who descended into the land of the dead, is a being of destruction. Her death gave way to his life, which in turn brought only more death to the land; and he reveled in it. There was never a purpose, mission, or cause to his chaos, only fun and revelry. It was the party of the century and Raijin soared through the skies alongside his brother Fujin, as he banged his drums and rained lightning and thunder down upon the people and their lands. Most never quite enjoyed his form of entertainment, even fewer managed to subdue him for a time to the benefit of the people, as rice struck by his lightning would bring good fortune to their harvest. His true nature is that of a demon, though his actions were never malicious, only mischievous.

When the colossus was constructed and Raijin was firmly planted on the ground, he was understandably...upset. The first few years were spent trying to find a way back to godhood and when that didn’t quite work out, he made the best of a bad situation. He might not have been able to ride the skies anymore, but he was still going to have his fun and despite their mortality, humans knew how to party. Didn’t matter the time or the age, they danced, they played, they drank, they fucked and he revelled in it all. Raijin broke his fair share of laws along the way, stole a few cars, busted up some faces, got his ass handed to him and thrown in jail more times than he could count. He always made it out though, his brother was usually more than good for that, even if lately they haven’t been seeing quite eye to eye.

Fujin is equally the lesser known brother and always seen together with Raijin, God of The Wind. His story is quite similar, born from the rotting corpse of their mother Izanami, he and many of the other demons that escaped the land of the dead, were tasked with killing their father Izanagi when he rejected their mother, along with the many mortals that existed in the world. Where Raijin would create thunder and lightning, Fujin would create the torrential winds that caused tsunamis and hurricanes alike. While their actions were rather destructive, some of their deeds benefitted the Japanese people as they took out scores of men on the high seas that intended to invade the country. Fujin’s actions, like Raijin, were never meant to be malicious, but rather than it being out of fun, he simply just did what he was told.

Fujin took his shackling to the mortal world a little better than his rebellious brother. At first it was angering why he, the god of wind, the literal epitome of freedom should be restricted to the ground, was beyond him. For a time he stuck with Raijin, after all the two were practically inseparable from one another and if they were going to be stuck on the ground, they might as well do it together. Then Fujin got to thinking about why all this was happening, about why this punishment had been bestowed upon them and while he thought, he watched his brother spiraling down his unchanging path. It had dawned on him that he only did what others told him to do, what his mother had told him to do, what his brother told him to do; it was time for a new path. He started studying, researching, reading every book he could get his hands on, visiting every museum he could, until he started working at one. In his mind if he could understand how humans viewed the gods, then there may lie the key to redemption, to freedom. Perhaps he could not only understand how the world viewed him and his brother, but understand it better than they could, maybe even understand the other gods better than they knew themselves. Regardless of the results, he was tired of bailing out Raijin, and while he might be called ‘boring’ and ‘no fun’ by his brother, he simply preferred the term ‘educated’.

Bastet is known as many and beloved by all. A daughter of Ra and she of the ointment jar, as per the deconstruction of her given name. Her devotion and protection to women as a fertility goddess, and the blessings of her divinity to felines has graced the natures of time through many deciphers of worship. Centuries past and before transition depict a fierce woman bathed in the strength of a lioness, festooned in such likeness of a divine protector and deliverer of justice: an avenger to the name of her father and sent unto his enemies along side her sister wreathed in anger and chief to war. However, this aggressive and near savagery has been diluted over time, trading the golden veneer of a lion with that of gentler domestication; a house cat seated and gazing yonder, eternally and watchful, paws also stationed with many litters amidst play in later depictions and art. It was uttered that she kept disease at bay to any woman and child, as such cats were often admired as near royalty in their roles as hunters of vermin.

She had lost, but she had also gained.

To walk among the mortal plain was both a blessing, and yet, such a curse, stolen of divine strength and yet able to touch, and feel the pain of those who worshiped her once. The likeness of herself toned down from golden lamplight and smudged into greys and blacks, almost desolate compared to godly ichor and splendor. Bastet touched babes and pregnant women in awe, now one of them. She was helpless almost, unable to quell those sudden and fearful prayers, witnessing what was once a blessed occasion now one rife with fear. Cats were turned away as pests, turning mad, feral, and diseased, liken to rats they once purged. Once upon a time revered for their role and now scorned for their nature, unable to be tamed or quelled and turned to metal cages and walls of stone.

Bastet wept for a time, for what entitled a protectress if she could not protect. Humans were tormented creations of greed and pride, burdened and yet lifted by sin. The sun of her father was a mere reminder to the days she would lie about in the sun and had become a star of boiling wrath that scorched the earth rather than bless it. She remembered the festivals and mourned their loss. The urge to move tore upon her bones often, thus producing a once splendid Goddess to a being of melancholy from her sudden inability to adapt from ageless days.

It took time for Bastet to adjust and take reign of her nature and mortal constitution, finding faith and reason in tending to old and new mothers as both Midwife and friend. She soothed worries in personal graces and tended to many strays strewn about the cities whenever the Colossus bid she move. She was adorned within the image of gentle and motherly affections, a simple woman that fed cats in the alley ways and bequeathed strangers with sweet perfumes, curiously accompanied by a feline or two purring among her heels and mewling for treats. However, banked within docile mannerisms lurks the shadow of duality, a haze to the light of maternal instincts that produces a fierce woman of many, many means to protect all that she holds sacred.

The Greeks enjoyed two gods of war. Ares personified the aspects of the warrior: courage, honor, glory and strength but also wrath, terror, strife and pain. He was a cruel and dangerous god. One only prayed to by soldiers, most prominent amongst them the Spartans. In myth he is often shown to be on the wrong side of battle. He fought amongst the Trojans against the Greek. Amongst the gods, only Aphrodite loved him. Even his father, Zeus, told him that he is the god most hateful to him.

Ares’ life is marked by a vicious cycle that has repeated itself for centuries now. At first he will represent strength, courage, honor and valor. A gentleman and a kind hearted warrior. It is not uncommon that he takes a wife in this stage (often time widowers of war). Sadly for him those years are always numbered. With every passing night the clarion call grows a little louder in his head. His muscles beg to be torn apart. He becomes short tempered and violent. Often looking for a fight just to have one. Tensions at home will always rise. If the woman is lucky, she leaves. Though this would send him spiraling into his next phase much faster. Blood will no longer sate him. Boxing, martial arts, wrestling, his usual methods to blow off steam will fail him. So inevitably he will go deeper and darker. Looking up underground fight rings. The bigger the city, the bigger those events are. No-one ever bested him such a depraved ring. Where honor is replaced with blind glory. Where strength is replaced by brutish might. These are his crimson days. Where blood flows but it’s never enough.

If he has a wife and she hasn’t left him yet, doom quickly comes for her. It will happen, for it has happened an endless times already. Blind rage will overtake Ares. Sooner, rather than later. There was a time he would’ve fought it. To no avail. It is an inevitability. He will kill her. If she was smart enough to be gone, the only thing Ares can do is rage on like an inferno. Until he had enough of the bloody murder. What follows are his black days. There’s the burial of his loved one after which he shuns society. Often times he’s wasting away in some gutter. In the old days the worst a man could abuse was alcohol and himself. But in the last two black days have been marked by worse poisons. Mankind, after all, had become expert at Asclepios’ arts.

The dark days have no set end. They can last years, or decades. Once it even lasted a century. But as inevitable as the self-destruction is the fight to regain what he once had. And fight he always does. Somehow he regains an inkling of his former splendor and crawls out of his own dug pit. It takes years and it has never been easy. But once out, his cycle starts anew.

When the gods came to Seattle, Ares had been showing his virtues for five years already. Almost as a prophecy, the second he arrived in Seattle he found someone he loved: Julie. She’s a simple human, but beautiful in his eyes. He loves her, thoroughly. And to his own delight and surprise, she loves him as well. Yet he hasn’t had the courage yet to tell her who he really is. What’s more problematic is that the tell tale signs of his endless, almost prophetic, wheel turning. He recently enjoyed fighting more than he should and has been working as a Consigliere for the local mob. He is slipping…

Love was one of the most powerful forces in the universe for it could make the weak strong and the proud fall to their knees. It came in all shapes and forms for Love does not and never will discriminate, but it mostly came in the form of the lovely maiden known as Aphrodite, the Love Goddess, Lady of the Doves. All men will be immediately smitten with her upon first landing their eyes on her heavenly visage and all women were either inspired or envious of her otherwordly beauty. The Goddess of Love has been a huge influence on the world of humans and even gods ever since she rose from the sea foam created by the castrated genitals of Ouranos. Aphrodite may be the embodiment of beauty but they will soon realize that even Love has its ugly sides too.

It wasn't much of a huge change for Aphrodite to be stuck in the world of mortals because she would always spend most of her time here. She did miss the times where she could go and see multiple men she fancied in many places at once and she also missed her ability to change her form to whatever she wished. Despite being an avid visitor of Earth, Aphrodite couldn't deny that the mortal world she loved had its ugly and often times foul-smellings sides that she didn't like at all. Still, the change wasn't that much of a big deal for her.

She was delighted to know that those who were deemed as beautiful, handsome, or just hot in general were treated nicer and with more respect than those who didn't qualify a.k.a. those that were ugly. Aphrodite, being the Goddess of Beauty that she was, decided to use this idealism of humanity to her advantage. Despite being stuck in a single human form, she was still undeniably prettier than most of her mortal peers. As time passed by, Aphrodite was able to live a very posh and comfortable life on Earth thanks to her natural godly beauty.

Still, Aphrodite missed being in the comfort of the heavens. She wanted to remember what it's like to not have the need to use the bathroom or the need to always re-apply her make-up whenever it rained. She missed flirting with the other gods and using humans as her personal love puppets. However, Aphrodite did learn to appreciate the value of human life too. She had seen so much hate in the world, discrimination towards those who looked different than the norm and prejudice towards people loving people of the same gender.

For the first time in eons, the Maiden of Doves felt outright furious. The humans have twisted and molded love to suit their own image so much that it began to hurt people who didn't fit their image of love. That was why she couldn't wait to ascend to godhood again. Maybe with her guidance, humanity might re-learn the true essence of love. Maybe with her guidance, humanity will finally discover the true beauty within.

One of two children born to Zeus and the Titan, Leto, Apollo was born to be an upstart. Nursed on ambrosia and nectar, the food and drink of the gods, Apollo and his sister grew fast. When Hera found out about the children, she sent the serpent, Python, to put an end to their lives. Apollo slayed the serpent, and as he began his journey amongst the Greek pantheon, he became a patron of healers and oracles alike. His favorite story to tell however, is about the time he and Artemis challenged the twins Helios and Selene, for control of the Sun and the Moon. They agreed on an archery contest, which Apollo has always claimed was won with pure skill. Whatever happened that day, Apollo walked away with Helios' golden chariot, and Artemis with a silver one to match.

At first, being tied to the Colossus was an adventure. Apollo had always had a softer spot for mortals than most deities, and Apollo embraced the new way of life. This curiosity did not last long, and after a few decades he began to reject his extended vacation. Unfortunately, he was just as stuck as everybody else, trailing after the Colossus like dogs, begging for the scraps of their former lives. What followed was Apollo's exploration of the worst parts of humanity.

He would spend a few centuries moping about like that, waking up in different taverns and getting mixed up in whatever debauchery he could fine. Finally, Artemis arrived, just as weak as him, but certainly better equipped to talk some sense into him. The talk did something, that much is for certain. Apollo took up music again, as easily as the day he'd first strummed a lyre. Gradually, Apollo accepted that being free of the Colossus would take time, and he became enjoyable to be around once more.

Leaving D.C. had been a pain. There'd been a mortal who worked on Capitol Hill that he'd taken a bit of a liking to, and then he was forced to hit the road again. A hot mortal wasn't about to keep him from shriveling into a powerless husk, after all.

Seattle turned out to be a less than ideal spot for Apollo. For starters, the sun seems to spend more time behind clouds than in front of them, and the constant rain wasn't a very welcome addition. Despite his misgivings about the location, he made the most of it. Being alive for a couple centuries meant that money wasn't too much of an issue. He got a penthouse apartment overlooking the city. If you're lucky, you'll get to hear him play the instrument of the night at one of his parties, or catch one of his songs at an open mic.

Xolotl — Lord of Lightning, Dog God of the Underworld, Father of Monstrosities. Over the years, he has been known by many names, and yet, one way or another, his reputation has remained the same.

Born to the priestess Cōātlīcue or “serpent skirt”, Xolotl was always something of a black sheep. Twins were seen as unnatural among the Aztecs, an omen of misfortune and ruin; and so, one of the twins would be taken away from their mother at birth and killed. Xolotl was fortunate enough to escape such a fate, though he often finds himself wondering if his survival was truly a blessing or a curse.

His twin brother, Quetzalcoatl lived freely under the light of the sun. The Feathered Serpent was also known as the Precious Twin, and shone brightly in all his glory. Xolotl, on the other hand, was left to lurk in shadow, guiding the souls of the dead through the underworld. And every night, as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, he would remain sentinel as it made its journey through the darkness to rise again at dawn.

Of course, with any mention of the sun, Xolotl’s legacy cannot be forgotten. It’s a shade that follows him wherever he goes, whining and worrying at his heels like a hungry stray. There are many who would call him coward for what he’s done, and indeed, they would be well entitled to. After the creation of the Fifth Sun, the other gods sacrificed themselves willingly to Ehecatl, the God of Wind in order to spur the newborn sun into action, but Xolotl did not want to die.

So he fled, changing himself into a multitude of forms to escape capture — first a maize plant, then an agave, and then an amphibious creature known as the axolotl. Xolotl was eventually found and slain, however, giving Ehecatl enough power to move the sun, but the damage had already been done. The name of Xolotl would become stained by ignominy and spoken of with contempt for years to come.

Xolotl remembers.

He remembers when he first felt the irresistible pull of the Colossus.

He remembers the colors of the sky as it began spinning out of control.

But most of all, he remembers the cold. It was as if a hole had been torn into the very fabric of his being, and as he walked upon the ground for the first time, black earth burying itself into the creases of his feet, he was struck by how… empty everything felt. No longer could he feel the buzz of power flowing through his veins. Now, there was only desolation.

For many years, Xolotl kept to himself. All that time spent in the underworld listening to the final confessions of the dead had given him a rather skewed perception of humanity. He regarded them as one would an ant — small, inconsequential, but also: ravenous. He had seen with his own eyes what they were capable of in their constant pursuit of more.

Powerful kings leading their armies across foreign lands, taking what they can and burning the rest.

Thieves with gaunt, hungry faces rifling through their victims pockets, letting the cold bite of a dagger do the talking.

Xolotl, with his vicious, snarling visage, might have been known as the god of monsters, but it seemed to him that the humans needed no help with their own monstrous deeds.

Yet, a part of him yearned for the power he once possessed. Time, he knew, waited for no one, so he made a decision. He would immerse himself in the going-ons of the mortal world, gather wealth and influence where he could, and then, when the time is right, seize the Colossus for himself.

While the old Xolotl was able to call down lightning from the heavens and speak to the dead, the new him learned power of a different kind. Over the years, he worked to position himself as an advisor of sorts to the rich and influential, though he took care to keep out of the limelight. Most of his work was accomplished behind the scenes, a little nudge here and there to push things towards the desired outcome.

It suited him. He was used to staying in the shadows, after all.

Xolotl first made his name in law in the early nineties. Gone were the days of kings and queens, corporations became the rulers of the new millennia, and people now faced judgement within the walls of a courtroom. Still, he adapted readily enough. Navigating the judicial system was not so different from the palace intrigue of yesteryear, and he took to his new vocation like a duck to water.

He worked his way up the ranks at a brisk, steady pace, starting out as a paralegal before becoming known as one of the most accomplished business litigators in America, renowned for his ruthlessness in dealing with class action lawsuits. His ties to the Colossus, however, meant that he could never stay in one place too long, which he supposed was just as well. After a decade or so, people start to wonder why you never seemed to age.

And then, five years ago, Xolotl found himself having to relocate yet again. This time, he was able to join a private law firm almost as soon as he set foot in the city. One of the firm’s co-founders, Jonathan Messier, had heard of his success in Washington, and thought him a worthy protege.

Within three years, Messier had retired after a health scare, and Xolotl managed to buy out his majority share in the firm. He decided to keep the name, though. Beaufort & Messier had a certain ring to it, and as the age-old saying went: if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. So for now, he makes the most out of the life he’s been given, patiently awaiting the day he can finally carry out his plan.

Much of Víðarr's role in the doings of the Æsir is minor at best. Although renowned as a warrior even among his brothers, he accrued no particular glories like Thor; instead, the taciturn god was mostly known for constantly thickening the soles of his shoes in preparation for the rending of Fenrir's jaws. Indeed, his ultimate purpose is to avenge his father Odin, slain by the great wolf Fenrir at Ragnarok. After the end of Ragnarok, Vidar will be one of the sole surviving male Æsir. Nothing too exciting. Just vibes.

Given his relative lack of importance in contemporary divine affairs, Vidar didn't take too badly to the nomadic lifestyle of being bound by the Colossus. While most gods bemoaned the feeling of being shackled, Vidar found himself uniquely qualified to just do things, always finding fleeting occupations to while away his time. A few times, he found varying niches in fashion - mainly shoemaking - but even for him, such affairs got boring, fast. He spent century after century chained to his own whims, but whether due to his own nature or due to the day of his prophesied glory not arriving, he found each more unfulfilling than the last.

Washington, D.C. had been particularly dull even by his standards. The restaurants were world-class in America's capital, so for a while he thought maybe he would take a job as a food critic. But for someone who considered using thirty sentences in a year being particularly chatty, he found that he was only good at the eating half, not so much the written word. Seattle came as a blessed relief in that regard - by the time the Colossus had been stolen, not only was he sick of writing, he was actually kind of sick of eating.

In Seattle, he instead chose to busy himself with drinking instead - namely, being the one to serve drinks. He found himself killing his time in the particularly late shifts at a certain new joint in the city. Bartending is Vidar's favorite niche he's had in ages. He finds the process of mixing drinks a fun way to practice his patience and ease his boredom, and it's not like most customers really want to hear their bartender talk. They just drink, drink some more, complain about their own problems, and tip as they leave. Ritual silence goes a long way towards encouraging all four of those things.