μ ά ρ ν α μ α ι

The witch flinches, a touch, as the blaze resumes roiling within the grieving soul opposite her. Composure regained with the following beat of her heart, aye, but no such luck, nor attempt, to close that heart to the lash of his flames.

Rage. Rage as both fuel and accelerant. Driving him, as a spiral, ever-deeper into the perpetually burning solitude crafted... for him? Against him? In spite of him...? She did not yet know. It pained her to see that, in truth, he did not know either.

❝ O Bloodstained One... I see the wounds you've suffered. I know your tragedies in my heart, and I beg your forgiveness for my part in deepening them. ❞

She does not sink to her knees. She would not genuflect before conflict-enraged, lest her throat be set upon a block. Yet, she does - she will offer her life to him, in sacrifice for great misdeeds done.

She approaches. With measured steps meant to carry her to the edge of his tempest of iron and steel, she holds just beyond his grasp.

The next heartbeat sees a fresh tribute paid unto him. Her arm — Her arm, not the replacement Hekate blessed her with — is thrust through the facade of the tempest for a heartbeat. Enough time to lacerate, to rip, to tear at her flesh. Not long enough to lose her arm in one swoop.

There is no god greater, in this age of conflict, than the god of war. Yet fury had blinded, fear had restrained, long had he been kept behind the abusive tongue of Zeus' lashing spite. Yet now, the blood-- He would rend her so, make folly of those who would claim his lineage without respect for the name. Defiant of all those who would--

The blood of an Amazon, splits from her flesh

It is not the blood of a witch, nor is it the blood of a mortal. For the faintest of moments, it makes sense. The essence of his beloved upon this girl, the wretched aura of his sister, the stench of the old witch within her bones. They were not the ones deceived, nor were they the ones with souls full of treachery and miserable lies.

No, it is not just the blood of an Amazon.

Fires dim, flicker to a roil rather than a blaze and amidst the storm of blood and iron the human shape of war itself is born among the sand. All blood spilled upon all battlefields belonged to him, that included hers in this moment. Yet he treats the pooling droplets like a babe born of his own flesh. Armored hands outstretch hesitantly to touch upon the sand.

No magic could fool the blood of the divine. Not least in ways that Mars could not glean from ichor of his devoted.

"You..." There is want to rage, to burn with unending fury, such becomes clear when his cloak lifts off the ground behind his knelt form. Sparking and flickering like the hateful flame it was.

"--Then if you are Amazon...?" Those emberous eyes still have yet to look upon her directly, still staring into the blood she had spilt. An effort is made, to find the story in the blood lest the tongue before him find lies. All it finds instead is a creased brow. A shaking head, and a patricidal fury that is, for a moment, remained tempered.

Okay so we're a week into May! We're moving towards our plan to get out of Alberta but a number of issues have popped up or festered:

• Our vehicle needs a few small repairs, especially our coolant system

• Our storage bills have arrived and we need to cover those

• And we still need to deal with our vehicle registration as we unfortunately had to use the funds for that on food

We're also still having to fundraise to get by day to day, things like food, cooking gas, and a prior gas for our vehicle add up a lot.

Anything helps us move closer to our goals, and boosts are deeply appreciated

My kofi can be found here, and you can ask for my paypal or etransfer address if you're in Canada

                                                 𝔹𝔼ℍ𝕆𝕃𝔻.

She looked up at his helmet vistage, reading into the few things his body language could tell her. Interest perhaps? Or was it amusement? Either fit. Either, she could work with.

For a long moment, she considered his question, giving it the due thought. She knew he would not go easy on her. Whatever he'd task her with would be grueling at best. She'd done grueling things though before, fought against quasi gods, survived centuries away from her body, and much else.

It would be hard, but she could do this. She had to do this, letting the yōkai running amok stay free was not an option. She could do this. It was a mantra.

So how did it look to get blessing from he who served on the fields? The bloodstained mire of war, burned and broken by eons of mortal kind clashing their blades and absorbing themselves in mirthless wanton bloodlust, was the altar for which all men prayed to Ares. Whether it was by name or not.

Ares rises to his feet, burning cloak birthed of the flames of war billows down his shoulders. Down and away as the pommel of his great ax find purchase into the stonework at his feet. Hands clutch the head, furling digits around the blade, their sharpened points pressed purposefully into his palms.

"Is any mortal prepared to go to war?" Men were prepared to start wars, to end wars, but none were every truly ready to bleed, to be bled. To die. His presence dwarfs hers, even for as tall as she might be, Ares is more. Ichor begins to spill from his hands, down the intricate forge work of his weapon. Divine blood with the cosmos themselves in every drop pour down the weapon and their arena begins to change.

"You wish to have blessing from the God of War?" A vacant battlefield, war torn and populated by jobless shields and misplaced spears, the sky a shadow of reality painted the brilliant red of Mars as his blood soaks into the ashen dirt. The bodies of those who pledged themselves to the god begin to rise. Their weapons firm in hand, guns, spears, swords, all manner of brushes upon the canvas of strife.

                                                 𝔹𝔼ℍ𝕆𝕃𝔻.