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xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 𝗔𝗟𝗜𝗔𝗦 Marcus Virgil Salvius 𝗔𝗚𝗘 𝗔𝗣𝗣𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗔𝗡𝗖𝗘 38 𝗖𝗔𝗥𝗘𝗘𝗥 Tech Mogul; Founder of Triarii Corp. | 𝗣𝗘𝗥𝗦𝗢𝗡𝗔𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗬
𝗔𝗠𝗕𝗜𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡𝗦 Wouldn't everyone like to know? Well, Mars wants a well oiled machine. He wants a functioning planet with no gods to run amok. Perhaps he'd like the Colossus under his thumb or perhaps he wants it hidden away. He has a good thing going here after Rome fell and he's not eager to let power hungry gods seize the world again. 𝗙𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗦 Contrary to popular belief, Mars doesn't want his godhood back. Not because he hated his time as a god, but because he doesn't trust any one else to wield their powers responsibly. He fears that kind of drastic change and its affect on beings who had their near limitless power forcibly taken from them for millennia. That won't end well for anyone. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx | xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 𝗜𝗗𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗜𝗧𝗬 Mars 𝗗𝗢𝗠𝗔𝗜𝗡 God of War and Agriculture; Guardian of Soldiers and Farmers 𝗣𝗔𝗡𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗢𝗡 Roman |
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Traditionally a child of Jupiter and Juno, Mars comes birthed in fire and passion. However, Ovid had it right: jealous of Minerva's birth without the need of a mother, Juno fled to Flora, goddess of spring and flowers. With Flora's assistance, Juno could birth Mars without Jupiter's seed. Sprang from a flower pressed to Juno's stomach, Mars rushed into the world, father of Rome and commander of Roman legions.
As father of Romulus and Remus, Mars' blood courses through the veins of every Roman and stands as an important figure in their conquest of the world around them. While his Grecian counterpart, who held great contempt in the Hellenistic world, Mars' role in the Roman Pantheon as a militaristic leader and father of Romans solidified his image in the people who worshiped him. Mars was a defender, a protector of his people, and a warrior who fight spear and arrow in the throes of Roman conquests.
Though his domain resided over war, Mars still held a title as a guardian of agriculture, Mars did not necessarily preside over the growth of crops, but rather protected them. He enabled them to grow by warding off danger. He provided stability in many forms, through battle and conquest, and as guardian to farmers and their livelihood.
Upon the fall of the world's numerous deities, Mars first succumbed to his instinct: anger, raged, war. That quickly faded into purpose. He would evaluate his situation, identify any threats to his well-being, and pursue a course of action. It only took a small amount of time before he saw the exact limitations set upon their newly made beings. Many deities shriveled and turned to dust upon exiting the Colossus range. The extent of his observations ranged through numerous tests, mostly done on himself for cruelty wasn't exactly one of his many attributes. Rome was built upon honor and virtue.
When all of his methods of gathering information had been exhausted, Mars retreated into the shadows. For decades he set about a plan, one he could turn to if things took a turn for the worst. The Colossus would have to wait and Mars was nothing if not a patient man. For now, he would have nothing to do with it; if it could strip gods of their powers, who knew of its further capabilities. He didn't exactly want to push and prod at the creator's intentions. He wouldn't force their hand and sap the immortality out of them.
Thus the world turned and Mars adapted quickly. Perhaps a little too quick. He took advantage of the infinity afforded him through the endless knowledge and experience he collected. If he could not go to battle with swords and spears, he'd sharpen his wit and intellect. He knew very well many of his fellow deities would do the same and if any had ill-will toward their kind, he'd have to come to the fight prepared.
Though Mars kept to himself for most of the many centuries he fell through, he made numerous connections most of which he'd call upon to aid in his own endeavors. Around the turn of the 19th century, Mars erected what would become a vast tech conglomerate, but first it started out small: a company that specialized in the repair and manufacture of agriculture tools. While most farmers were well equipped with handling their own tools, some would either not find the time they needed or simply found it more convenient for specialized artisans to do the work for them.
It took Mars a great deal of stress to hide behind a number of faces, most of which he took care to hide in even more layers and shadows. His identity wouldn't be spoiled so early in his game. And through the centuries, Mars grew his business from behind the scenes. As it took on more people, it allowed Mars to stretch his mind wide and weave his vision into the very fabric of his ever expanding company.
As factories and manufacturing exploded in the industrial era, Mars' small agricultural company turned into an industrial titan that supplied not only parts and pieces for farming equipment, but weapons as well. Perhaps that, uh, conclave meeting in the 40s had a small bit to do with him. He wouldn't deny that his hand was dipped in the World War II pot, but he had no claim to the trumpets of war. He just supplied the armaments to the right side. Though the Roman Empire was far from perfect, he would not have its named sullied. He may have pouted to The Morrigan about his inability to personally level fascist Italy for its mockery.
He took that personally. His company's switch from pure agricultural repairs to weapons manufacturing could attest to that stance.
After the second great war, Mars took to the technological age and the proceeding information age quite well. While his company still secretly manufactured some rather devastating weapons, it fell back to agriculture and the elevation of farming into the new and improved digital age. This is where Mars partially stepped out of the shadows as Triarii's aloof owner and tech genius behind many of the company's breakthroughs in agricultural engineering (somewhat true...). Something about needing to regain control of the company to steer it in his "forefather's" carefully guided direction. All of this was very much due to the unexpected relocation of The Colossus.
No doubt the surprise would stir the pot in their little godly community and if he knew them, the recent call of a Conclave would stir the pot even more. Perhaps he wanted damage control. Or maybe he just wanted to observe the other's and react accordingly. All Mars knew as that the chess pieces were moving and not how he'd wanted them to.
Mars was a patient man and, admittedly, quite easily amused by the antics of his fellow deities.
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Omnia mundis mundis
To sweet purity in dappled sunspots. In Rome she'd greet peace in cupfuls that the haggard and restless would know sweetness to its very last drop. Though not of Rome, her place still stands as stalwart as ever in the halls those most precious of gods. For her, Rome would let loose a volley of arrows to plot out the sun; would crash her ships to the shore; would light the flames of war until safety finds the girl once more.
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Quos amor verus tenuit tenebit
In holding does the tree shake her leaves and cover the earth in her salt.
Mars remembered a story an old woman had told him beneath Florentine stars. She'd wove a story of a fox and a wolf in endless chase through thicket and briar. Food for the wolf became food for the fox. Food for the fox would starve the wolf 'til morning came. But she paused, turned to him and asked: "What would the wolf do upon seeing the fox holding its heart in hand?"
Mars replied: "Mors tua, vita mea. The wolf would survive."
She shook her head: "No. The fox would bite; the wolf would howl."
Mars would howl now, burned by hot hands and fae eyes. Tricked and happy for it. In the end would the wolf be tamed or the fox? Perhaps neither in the everlasting tug and pull of their gravity, earth to moon and moon to earth, until the last tide rolls in. And Mars would wonder if it was all worth the trouble. He would howl, 'yes.'
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Cras amet qui nunquam amavit; quique amavit, cras amet
When no other option but victory presents itself in the ides of defeat, Venus provides. Rome would have fallen to the void, erased from the annals of time were it not for the mother the presides over Rome as if it beats in her chest. Thumps in rhythm. While Mars sired Rome, paved the paths for her prosperity and glory to radiate like the burning sun, he concedes to Venus Rome's truth, victory, and heart.
While love has changed from deep kisses under moonlight to quiet hugs beneath the summer sun, the strength behind his love had never faltered. Venus had captured, seized his affection, his heart, first and in doing so she has pocketed a piece of him that would wind around her finger and remain until time and space ceased. Until the earth moved no more. While the romance of the moon ended many eons ago, she would stay lofted in the sky for the sun to bear his heat upon her cheek.
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xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 𝗔𝗟𝗜𝗔𝗦 Hayden Petro 𝗔𝗚𝗘 𝗔𝗣𝗣𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗔𝗡𝗖𝗘 28 𝗖𝗔𝗥𝗘𝗘𝗥 Professional Obituary Writer; plays piano occasionally wherever he can get booked | 𝗣𝗘𝗥𝗦𝗢𝗡𝗔𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗬
𝗔𝗠𝗕𝗜𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡𝗦 People who know Hypnos know that he falls to whims and wishes. While Hypnos is a predictable sort, preferring to flow to the tune of slumber and dreams, he seems bereft of motivation or ambition. Perhaps he simply follows the ebb and flow of the universe around him. Maybe he just wants to crawl back into his cavern beneath the world where his flowers grow and the Lethe laps at his feet. 𝗙𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗦 The only thing Hypnos has the common sense to fear is the inability to sleep. He has a keen distaste of coffee and caffeine for that very reason. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx | xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 𝗜𝗗𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗜𝗧𝗬 Hypnos; Ὕπνος 𝗗𝗢𝗠𝗔𝗜𝗡 Primordial god of sleep 𝗣𝗔𝗡𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗢𝗡 Greek |
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Of the Chthonic deities, Hypnos resides over the pull and tug of sleep. Born to Nyx as a twin, Hypnos resided in the Underworld along with his brother. Within his cave did the river Lethe flow, and from the entrance a field of poppies. His sanctuary could not be thwarted by light or noise; it was bliss for long nights of slumber.
There are many sons and daughters of the night, Nyx, but Hypnos counts himself among those more gentle. The dark came with fear, misery, doom, and death, but it also bore dreams and the cradle of sleep. Beneath the mortal grounds, in the depths of the Grecian underworld, Hypnos gladly embraced humanity's unconscious lives in his. His touch aided those afflicted with wakefulness and did so without pause or want. No need, just the wish of bringing peaceful slumber to aching mortal eyes.
Though Hypnos does not feature heavily in the mortals' tomes and books, the slumbering deity found himself at the behest of Hera. Though mighty Zeus ruled over Olympus with a boisterous laugh and a lecherous appetite, he still fell to the guile of primordial Hypnos. In anger of Heracles' ransacking of Troy, Hypnos embraced Zeus in his arms to fall into quiet slumber while Hera took her revenge. Knowing of Zeus' rumbling anger, Hypnos fled to his mother. She hid him under the guise of darkness while Zeus raged and howled in fury.
Unknowing to Zeus (and he would like to keep it that way), Hera employed Hypnos one last time in a bid to preoccupy Zeus. Hypnos cast his net and reeled the mighty thunder god in once again while Hera distracted the mighty king. He ran to Poseidon this time, telling him of Hera's deeds so that he may swing the Trojan war in their favor once more.
Thus Hypnos fades away, content to slumber and shy away from the gods' quarrels. Hera hadn't asked of him yet and he hoped she wouldn't turn her gaze his way. His power of slumber was a mighty one that fell even the greatest of gods. But it wasn't invincibility and angering Zeus a second time would never make it on his to do list.
Awaking from a restful nap would annoy even the gentlest of gods, no more especially than one who personified sleep. It was as if a claw grasped him from the underworld and dragged him, groggy and barely awake, into the land of the living.
Would his poppies and plants whither?
Would the Lethe rage without his presence?
Would the mortals sleep again now that sleep would walk among them?
Hypnos did not rage like many gods and goddesses around him. He did not fuss when the Colossus begged him move from ocean to ocean. Instead, the slumbering god would plod forward in a moping mess, pouting at the turbulence that rocked his once peaceful world. He didn't like it. Yet, at least. He didn't mind it as much as some others, it would seem. Though, he missed his home in the darkness, making a home came down to finding a bad, shrouding himself in darkness, and slumbering once more. Others were not so lucky, he knew. He didn't care much, though he acknowledged their pain.
Regardless, he tended to like the mortals more anyways. He found the non-Chthonic deities to be too quarrelsome and too much of a trifle. Hades kept to himself, from what he garnered; his brother did his duty as was asked of him; the Fates were too busy in their eccentricities to care for the dramatics of the overworld. He cared not to be dragged into the open and used for his domain over sleep. So, he welcomed the frightfully weakened state of most deities as they would find ways to quarrel that didn't consume everyone around them. At least he hoped.
Now that he finds himself in Seattle, Hypnos continues to distance himself from most beings. He often works from home, a cozy and quaint apartment with a copious use of black-out shades. He keeps his poppy flowers healthy in their pocket of sunlight and keeps himself snuggled in a giant duvet and a bed that feels like wool consuming his entire being.
With a sleep schedule that he is free and willing to play around with, Hypnos tends to find himself at bars when not working. He refrains from imbibing, but instead offers his services as a pianist to those that wish his own accompaniment. Days and nights blur for him and he's content with that. While others wish to return to their domain or free themselves of the Colossus, Hypnos is happy to ride what waves he can catch provided it comes with many, many naps in between.
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Journal (v. 23) - Entry #54
A swan wreathed in myrtles dipped her beak into a milky pond. The ripples rush out against the surface until they collide into a lock. The swan turns her head toward the night sky. A tear rolls against her feathers and drops into the pond.———
Hypnos awoke that night with a pinch in his brow and Aphrodite on his mind. Certainly, she'd appreciate the sentiment, though her inference would be far from the truth. He doesn't dream of her much and any time he does, she's always connected to someone else — always periphery. That seems an apt description of their relationship: periphery.
If she ever calls him with concern for Eros, he would not hesitate to fly to her aid.
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Journal (v. 24) - Entry #9
Music flutters between petals sifting through the trees. Poppies are vibrant in the sunlight and I feel the beat of it against my cheek. It radiates warmth, rather than heat. Lazy summer days in poppy fields with strings strumming a familiar song. My eyes are heavy. They always heavy, but this time it's a solace rather than a mountain beating against my shoulders.
Even in my dreams I long for sleep, bathed in laurels and poppy petals under the canopy of a bending tree.———
Hypnos went from sleep to dream to sleep until his eyes fluttered open. Apollo was always a welcome presence in his dreams, often making already light slumbers feel as if the air has lifted Hypnos from his feet. Though, there's always an amicable distance between the two of them and it's perhaps the difference in energy that does it. If ever Apollo required a night's rest or simply arms to hold him, Hypnos would gladly be there, likely along with Apollo's many crew equally raucous and equally lovable friends.
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Journal (v. 44) - Entry #122
Beneath the pallid splendor of a burning moon there lays a cup tipped over. From its contents pours an endless deluge of violet liquid. A myriad of bodies breathing, laughing, humming surround the cup as it provides the center of their world in a room shrouded in dim light. I frown as much as possible with my cheek squished against the hardened leather of a chaise lounge.
There's a girl not far from me, pressed against a stool. Her hair hides the shimmer in her eyes. There are wilting flowers in her hand and jewels above her head. I reach out to her and she just whimpers, turning her face into the leather of ottoman.———
That time waking happened slowly. Tears prickled against Hypnos eyes as he rolled over. Comus had found her way into his little chamber, likely with the spare key he'd offered her. He frowned knowing that there wasn't much he could do but wrap her in hugs and will the pain away, however rare that pain would surface.
Perhaps he merely read his dreams wrong. Perhaps they were merely layers of his own anxiety and insecurity. He wouldn't deny that. Still, if Comus required a friend to share time, warmth, and a hug with, Hypnos would never deny her. Not on his life.
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Journal (v. 12) - Entry #1
I caught a dove with the bare of my hands. He slipped through my fingers in a tangle of butterflies only to be locked away in a black barred cage locked in gilded gold. One by one as night rose into dawn and dawn bled into dusk the shimmering pink wings of each butterfly turned to dust. The wind carried the dust away until it settled upon my river Lethe to sink into her oblivion, begging to forget.
And I stood as thickets dug into my ankles. I let the earth swallow me whole just before the last wing tasted dust on the cold, bitter air.———
Nightmares don't often take their hold on the god of sleep. From him dreams were born anew, bound to sleepers until they too became dreamers like Hypnos. Yet, what better subject to warp his dream into fear like Eros? A man he knew when Nyx unfurled him from her womb. Someone who graced his poppy fields to bid hello to he and his brother. A friend he'd failed so tremendously that his touch made him recoil in remorse and guilt for longer than Hypnos wanted to admit to.
Perhaps Eros should resent him. Hypnos would not blame the god for taking away what could have been a chance to reunite with someone he lost and loved with his whole being. Someone hard not to love, as Hypnos could also attest to, though his love was wholly and entirely different than the one Eros offered her. She was sunshine until a storm took that sun away.
Now still he merely offers his presence when Eros asks for it. Or perhaps merely shows up in hopes that he will ask. Of course, there are far more interesting individuals out there than Hypnos. Yet, Eros still shows up and Hypnos willing goes along, maybe too eager to fight the burning guilt in his throat.
The other shoe has to drop, doesn't it?
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Journal (v. 19) - Entry #69
From the talaria and petasos upon the marble counter tops, it was all too easy to know who plagued my dream yet. Perhaps plague is too harsh a word.
Graced. Cause Hermes is nothing if not a grace with his presence. And through the window that carved the wall, I saw Olympus again. Her glory stood upon pillars of white with the sun silky in the blue wings of the day. I saw his figure in a rare pose against a seat, head of soft curls resting against the cushion of a soft velvet.
Was it more memory than dream? A day where Zeus ran him ragged. Or perhaps that was my hands in his hair letting him slumber before the world fell to his dreams. I didn't want to leave. I wanted to crawl into my friend's arms and remember home again.———
It wasn't often that Hypnos longed for the glory days of godhood. Mostly because glory wasn't really the correct word to summarize Greek Godhood. Still, every second spent with Hermes made him remember the good behind all of it. Though he toiled away in the underworld, he found a friend in the voyages above to grace slumbering mortals with cloud-light dreams until he could persuade him to a nap under the Grecian stars.
Yet, it's no surprise that Hermes would yet again find himself the better parts of their pantheon. Though his mischief catches Hypnos off guard, there's comfort in his presence in both the waking world and his dreams. And if he closes his eyes really hard and shuts the bustle of the city off, Hypnos is back in his field of red with the fluttering of winged sandals buzzing in his ear ready to take him on an adventure he didn't really want, but welcomed nonetheless.
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Journal (v. 1) - Entry #1
Spring erupted from the earth, eager, willing, wanting. Chrysanthemums, wisteria, lavender, poppies all sprung in tandem, wrapping around each other in a cacophony of vibrant color. It blotted out the sun in a jungle of flowers and vegetation. It dug into the ground, anchored to the very fabric of the earth until it could very well be called one and the same.
Yet for all the excitement, I saw in the middle wrapped one over the other, vine over vine, and flower over flower, consumed by thicket until it too swallowed it in darkness. A pomegranate tree, small and withered stood beneath it all. The lone, heavy fruit it bore bent its branch until the shell touched grass. There a fawn wrapped herself around the pomegranate. There she slumbered.———
The very first entry of the very first volume of journals Hypnos keeps on his bookshelf in whatever room he would call home. It was the first dream to grace him in his mortal-dom, underneath the stone buildings of Istanbul. Persephone buried herself inside, folding into a flower that would bloom into Kore, maiden of spring.
Hypnos did the only thing he could at the time. He met her again. He became her friend. He watched over her and she watched over him. Perhaps he thought he was doing her some kind of good in that he'd take on the role of a guardian.
Then he thought again because what kind of guardian is as meek and small as Hypnos?
It was often the other way around, despite her sweet nature and natural amicability. He feared that he relied on her kindness too much and that perhaps he was attached to her hip too often. But, that was his friend. His best friend and one he'd sail through entire centuries with even when she refused to remember.
Was that for the best?
Were her memories to return to her, would she still see Hypnos as a friend? That's what they were in godhood still, down beneath the depths of the underworld in her 6 months as its queen. Yet, his inability to help her regain those days may sully his friendship to her, surely. How could a real friend waste his days away frolicking with her newfound identity while the truth laid locked in her heart.
Though he wishes the rekindling of her family — Hades, Dionysus, Comus — Hypnos still dreads the day. Is it an inevitability? Or do the fates have some other cruelness in store for his oblivious friend?
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xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 𝗔𝗟𝗜𝗔𝗦 Jensen Levi Andersen 𝗔𝗚𝗘 𝗔𝗣𝗣𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗔𝗡𝗖𝗘 Mid to Late 30s 𝗖𝗔𝗥𝗘𝗘𝗥 Chef at a Marijuana Dispensary and "High Class" restaurant Cannibistro | 𝗣𝗘𝗥𝗦𝗢𝗡𝗔𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗬 What does any immortal, godlike being destined for destruction and to destroy than to postpone that destruction near indefinitely? That and enjoying this newly gained life to the absolute fullest is exactly what Jormungandr works toward. At the moment, it's a very highly successful thing, but as many deities feel their patience and hunger for their long lost power wanes, Jormungandr is more and more afraid of the inevitable. When one gets a taste of life unburdened by shackles and fate it becomes addicting in more ways than one.
𝗔𝗠𝗕𝗜𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡𝗦 𝗙𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗦 The whole end times deal, mostly. Probably the Colossus being destroyed. Being turned back into a giant snake the length of the entire world? You get used to having a smaller, less destructive body especially one that lacks a tail that needs to be forever chomped on. Oh and maybe he's a bit afraid that his family won't ever be a family ever? Haha. That'd just fucking suck. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx | xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 𝗜𝗗𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗜𝗧𝗬 Jörmungandr 𝗗𝗢𝗠𝗔𝗜𝗡 Just a Big Ol' Snake 𝗣𝗔𝗡𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗢𝗡 Norse |
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Nothing feels quite so terrible as to be born into the world destined to destroy it, being told that you are a terrible beast unable to control your venom and spite, and being tossed to the seas in fear and loathing. Jormungandr, son of Loki and Angrboda, middle sibling to Hel and Fenrir, the great serpent, the one who lays slain by Thor and slayer of lightning. A child so feared by Odin himself that the great king of Asgard threw him to the seas of Midgard.
Within the turbulent oceans, Jormungandr grew to gigantic size. He was ouroboros, able to wrap himself around the Earth to bite his own tail. In waiting he lay at the bottom of the sea, patient and biding his time. Hatred first coiled and burned in him, then sorrow, and finally indignant complacency. Ragnarok would come and despite Odin attempting his all to stop it, to keep his brother chained and locked, to keep Hel frozen in her underworld, and to keep him chained to Midgard's seas, he would fail. Perhaps he took pity on the man while his sister and father hated him, while Fenrir toiled away in his shackles.
Despite everything, Jormungandr wanted nothing more than the same. Though, he did nothing to stop Thor from nearly lifting him to the skies, disguised as a hefty feline, or when he'd cast a line to the sea to catch the serpent himself. If Ragnarok happened, he would let it, because for all the turmoil of the world he slithered through, Midgard had its charms. To turn it to poison ash, to turn the seas black with his venom, to spew clouds of toxic purple into the skies would be such a shame.
At least he would die with his brother upon the plains of Vigrid, where true freedom would finally grace their tired souls.
But what if all the pantheons of the world came crashing down in one location? What if by some miracle a tiny ass rock sucked the magic out of Jormungandr, turned him into a mortal human and let him do whatever the fuck he wanted to?
Oh, confusion and anger came very quickly. And then it suddenly vanished. The confusion didn't vanish, as being a giant serpent for endless years only to be turned into something small with arms and legs took a lot of getting used to. Lucky for him, his diet of mostly fish never truly changed and wherever the Colossus could pull him he often had a quite fresh supply readily available.
First came the search for a few key figures he wanted to insure made it through the tumble into semi-mortaldom: Loki, his father, Fenrir, Hel, and Sleipnir, his siblings and finally Odin and Thor. The latter two wasn't quite what he expected. At first, there was contempt for a man who decided to toss him into the sea as practically a baby, but then there was pity and empathy. A weird feeling, to be sure, as most things under the deep, deep sea didn't have much to say about being consumed by a giant snake.
Of course, Jormungandr hadn't known the extent to which he tortured his other siblings. Which was why he sought the man out until he came to the conclusion that perhaps his siblings could provide that information willingly. He changed his mind many, many times over many years partly because, despite all being locked into one place for what he assumed would be for eternity, his family was incredibly, incredibly elusive. Perhaps for good reason as mortals, at the time, seemed quick to stab and burn anything that seemed out of the ordinary.
So, Jormungandr merely bid his time wiling away in materialistic things. He became quite a few many things in his patience. From an apothecary's assistant to a virulent poison maker for a number of mercenaries and assassins to a food taster for King Louis XIV to nearly getting his head chopped off with the aristocracy of France. He was quarantined with a family during the great Bubonic plague and had to sneak out when inquisitors came to bring penance to the sickly sinners.
Yet still he could not see his family. Though, he glimpsed Fenrir through a pair of trees in the distance of one of the cities they'd been holed up in for a decade or two. That was likely his imagination wanting to believe it was his brother. His father he'd seen here and there, but the man seemed to busy devising ways to dismember and torture Odin to want to chill out for a second and just enjoy time with his son. Hel, well she made it very clear she wanted to be no where near him. Her letters, though, were nice.
It wasn't until Seattle that Jormungandr found himself becoming too complacent about his family distancing themselves from one another. They'd spent centuries a part as gods and spent millennia a part as mortals. Jormungandr simmered. They were so afraid of Ragnarok, so willing to forgo their own blessing, that they would abandon him again.
They would let him toil in his sea.
They would leave him to die alone on the plains of Vigrid for what? For vengeance? For fear?
He just wanted time. Time that they have wasted afraid or angry or hateful.
He just wanted to be a family, just this once, until the universe withered away or until the Colossus cracked and freed them to their terrible destinies. What little time or endless expanse awaited them, he at least wanted one moment he could hold onto forever where he could truly say that each one of them was happy. Then he wouldn't care if Ragnarok took them in that instant or in a million instants later. At least he'd have known family for but a fraction of a second.
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Caught in chains, tormented, without family, no one to help him, all of the above. Jorm doesn't know a lick of it aside from the fact that Fenrir suffered. The pain, however, is evident as the torment digs into Fenrir's flesh like brier until it buries him beneath to turn the air in his lungs poison. It digs deep into Jormungandr's bones just how terrible the Æsir had tormented his brother if what lay on the surface for him to see could hurt that much.
Perhaps his mind exaggerated. Fenrir was flesh and blood, after all.
Regardless, his persistence broke the doors down until at least some of Fenrir's walls tumbled. Though his brother likely would never speak to him about the torment he'd faced, Jormungandr would remain. They were his to forget or remember at will, to bury deep or let go as quietly as he wanted. Jormungandr would stay, a presence looming above him with a hand on his shoulder and the other offering comfort—usually in the form of food.
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Through time and constant earthly revolutions (of both the spinny kind and the explosive, gunpowder kind) Jormungandr always caught a glimpse of her. Wheat woven hair swallowed in crowds. Eyes dripping with melancholy blinking behind corners. Sorrow and fear wretched away into shadows, under veil of night. It all happened fast and each time Jormungandr would fail to close the distance, to bridge the canyon between them.
She stepped upon the earth each day, as did he, as did their brother and their father, yet she still feared the end of days. And Jormungandr wanted to hate her for it; she, like Odin had once, stood between him and family without hesitation. For love and fear, this time, instead of fear and loathing. Yet, the sting felt just the same. He wanted her there, present, wrapped in hugs until the loneliness vanished in smoke. Until he could smell the mist of her hair tangled with the fog of their father and smoke of their brother. Jormungandr would find that, and Hel would come to see it too.
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The man to blame. Also the man to pity. Unfortunately, the man to love.
Despite their differences and his lack of desire for murderous, vengeance fueled rage, there were only a select few things Loki could do to burn away his son's trust. Those things didn't seem in Loki's purview, at least Jormungandr hoped they weren't. As long as revenge never left the tip of his tongue, Loki could remain in his presence. For all that he loves Jormungandr, for all that he loves each of them so deeply, his focus never left Odin and it burned Jormungandr to his core.
What can love do without presence? For Jormungandr, it was wasted on burning hatred that overshadowed even himself. So, if Loki cannot spend a day without thinking of ambitions and goals and murder, then he would not spend a day with him. The past leaves the door because the past hurts too much and he just wants his father there, as if he were but a child again wrapped in warm arms and told that that he is the world, the stars, the moon, the sky. That he is not alone. That dad's there, will always be there.
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xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 𝗔𝗟𝗜𝗔𝗦 Peter Samaras 𝗔𝗚𝗘 𝗔𝗣𝗣𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗔𝗡𝗖𝗘 48 𝗖𝗔𝗥𝗘𝗘𝗥 Runs a nautical cryptozoology blog and podcast called Fata Morgana. Works as a part-time server at, Captain Nym's Bar & Grill. | 𝗣𝗘𝗥𝗦𝗢𝗡𝗔𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗬 Unlike most gods, Poseidon just wants to start anew. He doesn't want the baggage of being a mighty god who committed terrible atrocities. Poseidon is content to bask in his forced retirement, gladly letting his past slip away from him. He just wished some of his fellow deities felt the same, mainly his family, but they're stuck here so why not sit back and let the world spin without them this time.
𝗔𝗠𝗕𝗜𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡𝗦 𝗙𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗦 The pain of loneliness aches in Poseidon's bones. He's a man who wishes to surround himself with people he cares about and to lose that privilege would devastate him. That and there's just something wrong about not being able to see the sea anymore. Were the Colossus to relocate anywhere in the southwest and away from the coast, he would go mad.xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx | xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 𝗜𝗗𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗜𝗧𝗬 Poseidon 𝗗𝗢𝗠𝗔𝗜𝗡 God of the Sea, Earthquakes, Horses, and Storms 𝗣𝗔𝗡𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗢𝗡 Greek |
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The origin and birth of the six Greek Gods has been reiterated countless times. Poseidon was the second son of Cronus and Rhea, swallowed with his brothers and sisters, only to be freed by Zeus and told to take up arms against the Titans. Thus did Poseidon dethrone the sea and conquer it, bearing the waters while Zeus took to the sky and Hades fell to the Underworld.
Greece and her people would worship these gods and goddesses as they came and went, owing to them bountiful yield or terrible curse. Many looked toward Poseidon for his domain surrounded their mountainous, infertile land and there lay the quarry and treasure that ensured their survival. But the sea bore more than food and trade; it sunk ships and roared in anger. The volatility that met each sailor sometimes refused to quell and the earth shook in her wake while mountains answered in kind with fire and rage. Poseidon required much from his people and though they gave, he hungered for more.
Greed and entitlement took Medusa's life, emptied for all her worth. Odysseus lost himself at sea, nearly swallowed in Poseidon's fury. And Athens shook in jealous rage at the waves that threatened her shore. Poseidon, for all he offered, struck fear in most and though his importance to many could not be understated, the man's mind would wander only on the terror he laid underfoot.
When the Colossus first took hold of his powers to drag him from Olympus and chain him to its pillar, Poseidon raged and shouted his empty threats. He tore a swathe through Istanbul until he found himself at her shores. His rampage did not end pretty, however, for as he neared the very edge of Colossus' line, he shriveled and shrank in upon himself. There was nothing more he could do be reel back in pain and agony as the immortal life was stripped from him. Though Poseidon survived his panicked swim back to the city's shore, he still suffered.
Occasionally, a reminder courses through Poseidon's veins. His left hand and forearm were left scarred, as if burned. Pain flairs and his hand stiffens when put under too much stress, intensified by any emotional turmoil or trauma Poseidon may feel. When it flairs, Poseidon's mind wanders to the past, beyond the Colossus, until shame overshadows the pain.
It took some time, but eventually Poseidon let himself come to terms with his situation. In fact, he embraced it. It was like a weight lifted from his shoulders and for quite some time, the old god sequestered himself away from any other deity. He hid behind his many guises in order to truly bask in the newfound mortality. He wanted nothing to do with the guilt he felt.
The pain, however, didn't feel the same. It festered. It stored up all of his rage and anger, betrayal and disgust and throbbed to remind him each time what he wanted to lock away. But, they were still endless and so Poseidon learned how to stifle that cry into numbness.
He refused to fall into old habits, though his temperament still showed. But, rather than let it boil into anger, he let it simmer. Suffice to say, he pouted a lot in an almost petulant manner. Many of his newfound loves found it endearing and some found it troublesome. Many found his easy jealousy ugly.
In the coming centuries and countless moves, Poseidon found love. He found loss. He sired no children purely because that would always spell disaster in days gone by. He discovered the treasure of family and lost it all at once. He continued and continued until losing every single one to the passage of time became too much and he began to ache for something he buried a long, long time ago.
Seattle was a stepping stone. When Peter Samaras became Poseidon again, or rather something in between. He carried the name, but he would rather have lost the legacy. He didn't seek forgiveness. He just sought out the people he knew he couldn't lose, if they allowed him in again. Rather than Vengeful Poseidon, he wanted to try on a new title... maybe Fun Uncle Poseidon? Or maybe he'd just go back to watching the ocean and willing the pain in his arm away again. It's not that he feared whether or not they'd welcome him again, but rather that he wanted that welcome in the first place.
It was a lot easier pretending to be human than acting like nothing ever happened when he dove into the shadows for an uncountable number of centuries.
"Hi, it's me again, Uncle Poseidon. I know I, uh, missed World War II and a few birthdays. I was busy drinking out a wine cellar cause the Nazis took someone I loved away from me. How has your all's past two millennia been?"
Finger guns. Finger gun. The other finger is starting to hurt really bad again.
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Time and nature erode deep cutting edges until they fold in upon themselves, smooth and frosted—green glistening pebbles on the beach.
Lalli reminds Poseidon of a girl he met in the winding alleyways of Istanbul. Dirt and grime could not hide the sharp features and withering gaze that she gave him. For all her sharpness, she caved when Poseidon held a hand to her forehead and carried her away to a nearby apothecary. She spat in his face before he left. He met her again, washed and plump from belly fulls of food, washing bloody rags in a bowl by the river. She raced back to the apothecary, eager and smiling again.
He hasn't met the latter girl in Lalli yet, still sharp edges and wanting. Of course, he smiles despite his memories. Perhaps she'd turn out different. He hoped for the better. But, she graced him with a seat when he needed one and an ear when she was willing. Her doors are always open for him. Her doors were open for everyone. He wasn't special, but he didn't need to be to appreciate the kindness that she offered.
Maybe next time she'd stay and have a drink with him. He's certain her stories could fill a novel.
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It was odd that the sunflower would stretch out his arms not for sunlight, but for sanctuary. He was a bastion.
The world can be cruel in its ever changing definition of normalcy. Many people fall behind in a wake of an ever evolving image of perfection wrought and wrung out by society. Poseidon knew and felt this shift with countless other deities even in his hiding and one too many times had he lost someone to the malice of humanity. It was a catalyst for his change from a god who knew nothing of the word 'consequence' and a human who felt the ever burdening hilt of its sword buried in his back.
It's why his appreciation for deities like Xochipilli remains insurmountable to this day. Though, he's certain the god would have no kind words for him, he has on numerous occasions wandered into his sanctuaries. Most of it was brief, under the guise of any other mortal being assisting a man or woman who fell under his care. It wasn't often, but Poseidon ushered a few homeless LGBT youth directly into the caring arms of Xochipilli.
Now, though, he definitely avoids interaction. Knowing that some people have memories like an elephant (honestly most deities these days) would mean Poseidon could probably be picked out from a crowd with relative ease. There's no real interaction and he's certain there's could likely be animosity between them; word about the Greeks travel incredibly fast, as he has found out upon stepping out of his hermit-y shadows upon moving to Seattle.
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The snake in the shadow bites hardest.
It's hard to determine what kind of man Xolotl is. The wind picks up names and carries them through like quiet whispers, but the wind doesn't like to share too much. Poseidon hasn't met the man and if a woman he knew a long time ago warned him, he didn't really want to.
"There are only two types men you should rightfully fear: tax collectors and lawyers."
Of course, she only said that because a prosecutor won over the jury he was on for the lady's evasion of countless audits by the IRS. Still, when someone gives you unwarranted advice you only heed it after a few dozen gin and tonics, no more and no less.
He doesn't know Xolotl. He doesn't really feel like knowing him. But, he'll keep his eye out.
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Hunger consumes entirely, first the man that hungers and then everything around him.
Who knows what to think of a contemptuous man in a mortuary. Poseidon certainly doesn't and he certainly does not wish to find out. Death has become a very core part of Poseidon's being; living with mortals makes it an inevitability. Loving mortals makes it an entirely different type of ball game.
Funerals are fine, but the cold, sterile steel of a mortuary isn't exactly his cup of tea. In fact, he finds it to be a very rare cup of tea that not many people like at all. But, to each their own.
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Some anger finds renewal at the end of its blaze. Like the decaying tinder of a forest floor, rebirth happens in a number of ways, some more violent than others.
Who the hell knows what's going on in the mind of a forest deer man who likely suffers from some type of anti-social personality disorder. He doesn't like Pan, so he probably wouldn't like this gloomy version of the weird goat man.
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The bitter heart is a heart denied.
If anyone could be found guilty of living within their own bubble it was the Greeks. Poseidon, in his godhood, was no different and Poseidon in his pseudo-mortalhood was also, kind of no different either. It's hard, though, to avoid gods when they're all in one collective little area and it's harder still to know you're talking to one unless they tell you. Even at the conclave, to which he had no part in, memorizing that many faces would require power they no longer had.
Ammit, though, he has seen once or twice. She seemed happier than most other gods that Poseidon has remembered encountering. That's not something he could fault her for. While many gods likely wanted the colossus turned to rubble, some basked in the clean slate this stripping of their powers offered them. Poseidon seized that opportunity and it seemed that Ammit had, too.
Whether she would consider him a friend from just that fact alone... Poseidon is certain that that's a highly unlikely outcome.
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"Come," he beckons beneath two obsidian obelisks, eyes piercing the black sand, "weigh your heart between my teeth."
Maybe that lady was talking nonsense. After all, not every lawyer is a corporate shill or the patron saint of serial killers. Is Anubis potentially either of those things? Definitely not the first one, but he has absolutely no clue about the second one. It's hard to interact outside of one's own family if one's own family is the whole reason you're out of hiding.
While he's certain to have met the man, does Poseidon yet know he's a god? Probably not. Will Poseidon ever be friends with him? Judging by his interaction with Hades, that's also probably a no. Sad to say 'cause the Anubis does look mighty fine.
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She turns to look at you, measuring your worth beneath needle point eyes.
Were Poseidon to know Bastet, he would find her purpose in psuedo-mortality to be impressive. While he wiled away his time spent in hiding finding love, losing it, and generally wandering here and there, Bastet found a way to express her domain even as a human. Even without her powers.
Perhaps he'd spent too much time moping in his own self-pity, away from prying eyes. Of course, he'd always thought that way, but the more he meets deities that have found a way to atone for the suffering they've caused mortals the more he finds his own time spent woefully inadequate.
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What kind of love does anyone want? Or does it matter? Any kind to mend the many shattered hearts at her feet begging to be whole again.
Poseidon likes to think he has an on-again-off-again relationship with love. With Aphrodite, though? Definitely not. The love goddess had more of a temper than he did in his godhood and that's definitely saying something, but her touch was often just as full of fire.
Maybe he should think her on the many lessons of love he got throughout the lifetimes he's lived. Or maybe that thanks goes to the myriad of love deities that now surround them all. That somehow feels disingenuous to the many mortals he's cared for, found love in of all kinds. Still, he's certain it would flatter the love goddess if he were to thank her for the years he got to spend with the people he found solace in, even the ones that ended in more pain than love.
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The sun only stops singing when the moon calls his name.
If memories could be stripped, Poseidon would do so without hesitation. There's not much he would love to keep of his godhood aside from perhaps memories of the twins, both nephew and niece. He knew deep down that if anyone were to accept him back, no strings attached, it would be lovely Apollo.
With a person to confide in, to talk about the past to, it made coming back to the hidden world of the gods that much easier. If it also meant getting roped into Apollo's group of rowdy gods, then Poseidon would be more than happy to follow. Apollo doesn't quite know it, but Poseidon is appreciative of his nephew's easy charisma as it opened a few doors Poseidon might not have been able to step through by himself.
For that, he can only be grateful to the sun god.
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The battle drums are his heart beat. His footfalls are the march of an army. His hands are bloody and his heart is heavy.
Truest nephew and Hera's favorite, Poseidon has no ill will toward Ares. Honestly, that's all that can be said as though the two would find themselves assisting each other in naval warfare upon the Mediterranean sea, nowadays the only warfare they'd find themselves in is shared mental anguish. They've both dipped their toes in mortal hood and he's certain Ares knows the cost of loving one of them.
Still, Poseidon has a soft spot for his and his wife's love. Though they don't talk, if Ares were ever to need help in protecting Julie, Poseidon would gladly offer. Not that Ares would. After all, bullheadedness runs in the family.
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Does the moon ever sleep?
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