FriendFromDSMP

Site: discord

Escapees: @friendfromdsmp @subversivecynic @thememedaddy @charming-roma

Telemachus’ eyes widen in realisation

“Stop-!”

The suitor’s cruel smirk widens as he cups a hand next to his mouth, his voice piercing the haunting quiet around the darkened palace

“Brothers, we’ve got company, and he’s made a grave mistake!”

Technoblade likes Greek mythology

There exists the idea that Technoblade can switch from human form to pig form at will

Can you imagine the absolute fucking power play it would be if he stumbled upon Circe’s palace and she threatened to turn him into a pig only for him to just??? Do it himself???

Like, where do you even go from there? What’s the plan anymore?

It had been a long while since men landed on her isle. Circe carefully slid her shuttle between the wefts of her loom, humming lightly as the island whispered of mortal footsteps on the shore. Only one set - a lone traveler, then, lost in the storms of the sea and seeking refuge until the heavy, dripping clouds passed. The wolves rumbled - they could smell their kin on the man, and while the mountain lions were not as fond they did not move to attack. Not a warrior then - at least, not a true one. Not a threat to her and hers. 

The color of the thread shifted beneath her fingers - a pale pink bloomed from the previous white, an abrupt change from the emerald-green leaves she had been weaving. The goddess paused, examining the hue closely - most men who stumbled upon her island were red or orange, perhaps alternating shades of emerald and dark grays (there was a fleeting memory of a man with blonde hair and crows wings and a ridiculous hat, a laugh on his lips as he introduced himself as Hades and took the hand of his wife Persephone as they chatted about their marriage, sealed with pomegranate seeds).

It was no matter, and she had no time to dwell. The mortal was approaching her palace, pausing only to scratch the ears of her guards. The wolves were more than happy to bow their heads and wag their tails. The mountain lions, lounging upon the stones of the mountain that circled the cove, showed less enthusiasm but were no less excited for the ear scratches. The goddess wondered about the mortals size - it had been long since her pets were able to hunt fresh meat.

Heavy steps echoed on the polished marble steps of her temple, and she smiled - a good-sized man then, to make a good sized swine. No - no, a boar this time. Her guards were growing round and lazy, they needed the exercise of a proper hunt. She finished the row and set her shuttle aside, still humming as she turned to the open archway to greet the newcomer.

Circe had been right - he was large, a towering young man of twenty or so, broad shouldered and brushing nearly seven feet. Beneath the thick, red himaton that hung over his shoulders was a white chiton that had seen better days. Both were crusted with salt, and even the sandals tied up his caves were sparkling with dots of white. In contrast to his masculine form, his hair - the same pale pink of her weaving, the same hue of the small flowers that grew upon the hills of the Acropolis - was twisted into delicate braids, woven with gold chains and pinned up off his neck. A diadem - thin and gold, but bearing a heavy red jewel in the center - rested upon his head, matching what jewelry she could see beneath his sea-soaked clothes. 

A man of wealth, then - not that it mattered to her. Men were men, swine were swine, and men were swine. She stood, absently running her fingers down the front of her own loose chiton and adjusting the golden leaves that formed her belt. Her fingers brushed the potion vials nestled in their hidden pockets for only a moment before she clasped her hands before her.

"Greetings, wanderer." She bowed her head. "You are welcome here. Please, enter and join me at my table." She gestured to the grand, carved stone table, where many men before this newcomer had dined and fallen to her charms. Unlike those other men, this one didn't immediately enter and fall gratefully into a seat. He scanned the room with eyes so brown they were near red, right hand brushing over his hip. Beneath his shifting himaton she caught sight of a hilt, gilded in gold and shaped into something she could not discern. A warrior, then - more meat for her loves to eat.

"There is no threat," she simpered, moving to the shelves carved into the spotless marble walls and pulling out bowls that filled with the finest of fruits and meats at her touch. "You are in the home of a goddess, one who does not harm mortal men." The words were true, thick as honey on her tongue, and she watched the enchantments that wove from her voice relax the man. His shoulders fell from his ears, and he stepped through the threshold, approaching the table.

"Eat, drink, I am honored to have you here." She set the bowls down and fetched a flagon of wine from the chest beside her loom, placing it before the head of the table alongside a golden goblet. "I am Circe, goddess of herbs and potions."

The man lowered himself into the head chair, though he paused at her words. He glanced up at her, gaze scouring her face, before he finished sitting, relaxing in the thick cushions. "I am Technoblade," he offered, gaze drifting over her as he took her in. This was familiar territory, and Circe allowed her chiton to slip a bit, the loose fabric sliding from one shoulder. Men were swine, and swine liked to eat, both with mouth and eyes. 

"Technoblade." She rolled the name on her tongue - it was familiar in a way that it echoed something from long ago, from before the times of Odysseus and Ulysses, when gods were young and mortals younger, when the Titans were still fresh in the memory and Cronus still a lingering nightmare. A historian for a father, then, she reasoned and brushed off the lingering sour taste the name brought to her tongue. A historical name for a warrior wanderer. "Welcome to my table, Technoblade. Please, partake, there is no cost." She poured him wine, the goblet filled near to the top.

He nodded - a man of few words, which she could appreciate - and picked up the cup, taking a sip. His shoulders fell even further as her special blend did its job, and she turned as though to put the wine back in the chest. Instead, she seized her staff - her favorite, a heavy oak branch inscribed with runes inlaid with gold - and turned, quick as a whip. The man hardly had time to jerk in surprise before the magic had seized him, and he was transformed.

Pink skin slid into rough, bristly fur, linens tearing as limbs shortened and twisted and fused, fingers and toes growing into thick, black hooves. A tail sprouted, and tusks grew from an elongated snout as the transformation finished. Where once had sat a man now was a large boar, clothed in the rags of his former form. It sat on its haunches, front legs keeping it upright, looking about dazedly as the rational thoughts slipped away, the mind of a simple beast taking over.

The Goddess of Transfiguration (and witchcraft, and potions, and magic itself) smiled, gripping her staff tightly. It had been quite some time since she'd gotten to stretch her magic, and the beast before her would make a wonderful quarry for her dear guards to hunt. Why, he had enough meat on him to make sure they each got a good serving! In fact, he was…oddly large. Almost unnaturally so. Perhaps it was simply that he was a boar, instead of her usual choice of domestic swine? Or maybe his own large size as a human had something to do with it - Athena, during one of her weaving lessons when she was just a small child, had spoken of something called 'matter' and 'mass', and the 'scientific theory'. She hadn't cared then, more interested in creating images in her work, and to be honest she didn't care now. Apollo and Athen could muck about with that 'wisdom' and 'science' and such nonsense, she had much more important matters to attend to. Such as getting this new boar into the woods, so her guards could eat.

Only, when she moved towards the creature to begin shooing it away, it looked at her - not in a way a beast would look, with fear and alarm and confusion, but with a human gaze. One filled with derision and annoyance and just the faintest bit of amusement. Then, quick as she could blink, the boar was gone, and the man was one more in the chair, clothing back in place (though a bit worse for wear than before), and hair once more perfectly set about his head. He didn't say anything, just held her gaze for a long moment, before reaching out and picking up his goblet once more. Circe, flabbergasted, opened her mouth, trying to come up with some excuse, some apology - a potion mix-up, perhaps, or a slip of the tongue - but as he took a sip, all she could see was the amusement in his eyes.

The swine.

She swung her staff towards him and uttered the words again, in a near snarl this time, and the man once more was replaced by a boar. The goblet fell from his hooved hands, dropping and spilling wine across the table, himself, and then the floor. The boar glanced down at his stained clothes and huffed in annoyance, then looked back up to meet her eyes again. His gaze was painfully human, painfully rational. 

Then he was human, and brushing himself off, adjusting his shirt and frowning down at the new deep purple stains. "You could have waited until I set my cup down," he told her, voice gruff but tone only lightly chiding - no panic or fear at the fact that she had turned him into a beast twice now. Circe gripped her staff tightly with both hands, wracking her mind for the answer. He had no moly upon him - the spell wouldn't have worked the first time if he did, and she'd rid the island of it after Ulysses had sailed off with his men. There was no charm or blessing that she could see upon him, and her islands and wards hadn't warned her of another being, mortal or otherwise, accompanying him here.

"Who are you?" She demanded, voice high and tight.

Technoblade - the sour taste remained on her tongue, the nudge that it wasn't right, it wasn't a true name, but a nickname, a moniker, for something fearsome - bent down to pick up the goblet. As she watched, it filled with drink - something darker than her wine, crimson where the light hit but near black otherwise - and leaned back in the chair, which seemed more like a throne with how he sat, one leg loosely crossed over the other, lounging before a goddess as though he had not a care in the world.

"Technoblade is what I prefer," he took a sip, and the faintest red stain was left at the corner of his mouth. He didn't look at her as he spoke, keeping his gaze to the cup instead, swirling the liquid inside and tracing it with his eyes - had they been red before? Surely not. "But I have been known by many names in the past." And as he spoke, his face changed.

"The Erymanthian Boar," his head sharpened into that of a boar once more, with razor sharp tusks that jutted nearly a foot from his face, a shaggy mane of black bristles replacing his hair. Still he spoke, mouth moving even as it changed again.

"The Calydonian Boar," the fur smoothed, the bristles shrunk, the snout shortened, but the swine was no less dangerous, the golden markings of Artemis picked out on his forehead in shining lines of fur.

"The Clazomenae Boar," wings sprouted from his back, the mark of Artemis fading (not that Circe noticed, too aghast at the feathered limbs that brushed each side of her room, at the power they heralded, too aghast the mistake she has made). 

"But you likely know me best as my true self." And then there is nothing - no room, no table, no man. Only darkness, so thick she cannot see her own nose in front of her face. "Erebus."

Circe does not know how long they stay there in the darkness - in his domain, the domain of Erebus, God of Darkness and Gloom, Lord of Tartarus, the First Ruler of the Pantheon, child of Chaos themself. It could be seconds, or minutes, or hours, or days, or weeks or months or YEARS.

And she is not alone. She can feel his eyes on her as she stands, gripping her staff, gaze straight ahead - not that it matters, he is the darkness, she could be engaged in a staring contest and not even know it right now - 

Then it's over. 

They are in her temple once more, and Erebus, God of Darkness and Gloom and everything else, is lounging in the head chair, which is now a proper throne, made of black marble with gold veins that look too much like eyes for comfort. He is sipping from the goblet, watching her with a raised brow. When she says nothing, he drains the rest of the drink and sets the cup down gently, then laces his fingers together and rests his hands in his lap.

Where before he had the demeanor of a weary but wary traveler, a man lost to the sea seeking refuge for a night, he is now nothing but confident, radiating power and contentment, the control of the situation firmly in his grip. Despite being the same size before the darkness, he takes up the entire room, and she has to strain against his presence to resist the urge to flee. He considers her, with those bright-red eyes, then nods to the seat closest to him.

"Now that we have that mess out of the way," he snaps his fingers and a book appears in his hand, bound with leather and pages edged in gold, "I'd like to hear your version of events. Ulysses has been quite insistent that you are the villain - and after that whole thing," he waves his hand, as though to encompass the past few minutes hours days weeks years, "I'm inclined to agree. Mnemosyne and Clio were too nervous to approach you themselves, so I came at their behest." 

"You…what?" The staff in her hands slips a bit, and Circe grips it tighter, pulling it against her chest. Erebus - Technoblade? - raises a brow from behind the thin, gold-rimmed glasses that are now balanced on the bridge of his nose. He motions to the seat closest to himself again, and after a moment of her brain stuttering, she decides she doesn't want to go back to the true darkness of his realm and shakily takes a seat.

"Ulysses's buddy Homer is writing down his whole journey," Technoblade - Erebus? - sets the book down and pulls a quill from nowhere. It's made with a large, dark feather, one she recognizes as a crow - but crows don't grow that large, do they? - and begins making a note on a clean page. "He's apparently exaggerating quite a bit - it's driving Clio mad, have you met her? Inaccurate historical records are her greatest fear, and his 'ode' is quite self-serving and apparently embellished to Tartarus and back. I promised Clio I would do some fact checking." He looks up at her, waiting for a reaction. With the spectacles on his nose and a blotch of ink already staining his fingers, he appears - well no, he is still terrifying, but it is tempered somewhat. 

Resisting the urge to leave her temple and start a new life on another island, or turn him into a swine one more time (Third times the charm, as the Fates like to say) and run for it while he turns back, Circe rests her staff on her lap and bites her lip, thinking over his words. Then, a thought strikes her.

"Has he mentioned that we have three sons together?" 

The god blinks, then a wide grin crosses his face and he turns to his book, beginning to scribble. "No, no he has not." He snorts (it's particularly pig-like, she notes), and absently grabs a grape from the plate nearest to him. In all their spell casting, the food has remained, as delicious and inviting as ever (though she notes, peering at the goblet that had appeared at her elbow at some point, her special herbs and spices are gone from the meats and drinks). "Tell me about them." Erebus glances up, and Circe can't help but compare him to the other men who have come here.

Despite his history, his names, his ability to transform to pig and back, he's the least swine-like man she's ever met.

"Well, our eldest is Telegonus…"