e·nig·ma

-

Working at Ambrosia had naturally been Harlow’s bad influence, but Emma enjoyed it. The other performers were all lovely, and Evie herself was a force to be reckoned with. She got along well enough with the staff, and the clients too appreciated the artform for what it was. “My passion?” Emma clarified, she had to think on this for a moment, her own glass arrived on the table though hers was laced with a few splashes of crimson to sate her appetite. “I suppose it was my mother, her and I would sing when we set about the house doing chores.” The memory was of her second-mother, the one that had taken her in after Leighton’s abandonment. She was a good woman, and yet another that Emma had done poorly in the end. “She’s gone now, singing just… Makes me feel close to her.” The reminiscing drew a soft smile to the edge of her lips before Emma turned her focus towards the woman that had posed the question. “And you?” Emma queried, “Have you always been a fan of burlesque?”

-

She hadn’t been, really. A fan, that is, until she wandered into the establishment and listened in on the details of such a place. The blessing that Hypnos had given her was just that and it was nice to hear the unfiltered thoughts of others without even needing to say a word. Much different from the one that had originally graced her when Zeus had favored her, but there was a part of her that preferred it this way given it hadn’t come with strings attached. “I enjoy dancing, music—” the rift stated as she swirled the wine inside her glass and caught whiffs of its aroma, “the melodic singing. I’ve always found that entertaining.” Though Farrah wasn’t sure how much detail she was willing to dish out about her own existence and how ancient she truly was. With time, maybe. “So, I suppose that qualifies as a fan?” which was more a rhetorical question than an actual one, allowing Farrah to move on from the statement quickly, “Refreshing to see so many supernatural working alongside the other, too. Have you been here long?”

@corinthbaystarters​​

location: Agia Paraskevi Street

A woman stealing, a man cheating, and down the street a pair of siblings traded blows. Humanity was ever-changing, but stripped of their technology, their expensive clothes, and whatever other superficial constructs they clung to and they were all the same. This city was known for its hedonism, tainted at its very core - it was no wonder Hotaru had been tasked with coming here. Though the more he observed the more the task seemed an impossible one, failure loomed over the horizon but so long as he remained useful to the Greeks he might avoid Enma’s punishment. “Tell me,” Hotaru queried as he held up one of the numerous evil eye charms that littered a stall, “do these really work?”

-

Eyes. A tender subject that Farrah still hadn’t quite buried down deep enough to completely let go of, though the loss of her power by the hands of Hera was difficult to forget. Difficult to escape, still missing the sound of her children at her feet and the oceanic tint of their irises. “Many believe they do,” she answered the man before her fingertips graced the smooth texture of one that hung from many other smaller beads, “not just to ward evil, but to bring about good luck.” Which nowadays seemed foolish and something that mortals clung onto in order to believe they could alter what was already fated to them, “Apotropaic talismans and amulets that were used and meant to avert any threatening danger.” But look at the bayside now, as the scent of decay engulfed the city and the presence of Hektor was extremely apparent, “Where you are from, was there anything similar?”

Sickeningly sweet. That was the only way she could describe the taste within her mouth and fill her gut, much like a child having their hands in the candy jar. The whole city of Corinth had that aura about it and Farrah wondered how many in its limits could sense it, onyx gaze fluttering from one face to the other as she sipped on a chai latte. She had always loved the spices, the aroma of cardamom and the unique taste of star anise. Immediately the rift was met with memories of when she would hoard the spices away for only herself when trade wasn’t as plentiful. Those days seemed to be long over, having seen at least two serving something that held its name. Honey, or something of the sort, coated her tongue instead of the usual creamy milk and the sharpness of black peppercorn. She had settled on Anxietea without much reason besides natural curiosity (who needed tranquility anyhow?), but much like the indole scent that hung in the air— there was just something off about it. Maybe it was the way the drink instead reminded her of the spiced mead they would offer Persephone all those years ago. “Mh—” she let out a displeased snort before whispering, “This is considered tea?”

for: open

location: ancient corinth ruins

What remained were ruins. It was funny how memory filled in the gaps, like the haze of tears on squinted eyes, light illusions built the crumbled columns again and restored the streets. Medea could see the pathways she would walk with her boys, and the courtyard she spent afternoons in, breathing in the cool air that came off the ocean. It was a bitter melancholy, anger pricking and overwhelming the pain when she thought of how it could have been her last memories— that stolen happiness in her first home. Now, with nowhere for the anger to go, she released her clenched hand, reddened half-moons bitten into the tender creases of her palm, and turned to make the long walk back to the modern city. It was a solitary pilgrimage— strangely quiet without the chatter of noisy tourists, and she stiffened when she saw she was no longer alone. “Watch your step,” she called, closing the gap between them, “nobody wants a twisted ankle from some loose cobblestone this early in the morning.”

-

“If silly mortals can pass through without incident, I’m sure the two of us don’t need to worry about loose cobblestone,” the fellow rift stated as she looked out at the ruins that had just trapped Medea in its memories. Lamia understood the look— the way it vibrated every ounce of yourself and twisted at something deep in the soul. That’s simply what was left of a lot of their existence and lives in Greece, glorified ruins. Tourist attractions out of the life that they had built, lived, and ultimately lost. Her own that she had once called home fell to the same fates and Lamia knew that if she was to ever set eyes on them again, it would only add to the flames. “Though, speaking of morning— it is a bit early to already be destroying yourself. Don’t you think?” she offered a softened grin before eyes rested back on the bricks, “Wasn’t this once your refuge?”

“You, my darling, are a hard woman to track,” and it was understandable, as Lamia was coming to gather and play catch-up on the events in the bayside. A smile curving at the corner of her lips, sharp onyx irises taking in the silhouette of Medusa and wondered at how long it had been since the two sat before the other. Two women scorned by the Gods of Olympus, by those they thought would aid them instead of smite them and yet here they were. Scaled creatures that had been shunned and made to suffer for what Lamia could only describe as gaslighting. It was no wonder they both sought out vengeance and retribution. “All these rumors and stories, of you taking a knife to Scylla in the cave while she slept,” a task that Lamia was almost a little envious wasn’t herself having been chased by the hydra for decades before the original’s finally caught up with her, “So, tell me the truth— what really happened in the cave that day?”

The scent of burnt coffee was pungent, almost overpowering the other smells that practically whirled around the room. Tobacco smoke, fresh ink on warm paper, and sweat. A kind of sweat that only comes from heightened nerves, eyes peeking around the room to get some kind of sense of place. Desks and office chairs littered the space as she slunk through the shadows, the only light seeming to come from digital screens, and finally made out a figure that sat within its center. His brows creased, hues sharp as they focused on something just out of sight of Farrah’s view as she inched closer. She had seen similar looks on men in the past, hovering over large parchments of maps and battlefield strategies, though that didn’t appear to be the case here. Her mouth gaped open for a moment, but words caught in her throat at the absence of anything useful to say as she took in more of the scene.

The whole scene that surrounded Ambrosia was a new concept to Farrah, but was quick to find enjoyment in it. Lightning was attractive and managed to highlight her best features, along with performances that each showed their own bit of flare. A burgundy wine sat in front of the rift, still mostly full on account of her practically nursing it all evening, as she attempted at a smile towards the vampire that sat next to her. She had already grown a bit fond of her during the performance, an enchanting voice that could soothe even the most restless of souls. “How did you discover your passion?” she asked, full of intrigue, though hardly ignoring the fact that Persephone clutched her soul.

“Looks like you’ve been quite-” her onyx irises bore into the man she used to call King and tried not to think of all the other titles he once was to her. Husband, father of her children, partner. There wasn’t an ounce of him that was any of those things now. No, instead he was freezing and gave her all the comfort of a perpetual itch in the throat. Yet his eyes still held the same color she remembered and replayed over in her mind, the same that matched the seas near Knossos. Part of her still missed those beaches, but mostly just the children playing on the sands and the sounds of their laughs. Back then, the thought would bring tears but now it only brought up a spiteful burning deepening in her belly. “Engaged with the cult, blooming even,” a tone that suggested more that she hardly cared at all.