happy new years everyone! I'm still here (although very quiet because work, and getting called into work on my ~supposed days off~, I WILL SEE YOU IN THE NEW YEAR where hopefully things calm down a bit!
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@ofwxr
happy new years everyone! I'm still here (although very quiet because work, and getting called into work on my ~supposed days off~, I WILL SEE YOU IN THE NEW YEAR where hopefully things calm down a bit!

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He had not expected the second reaction from the god; the first certainly, because just as he’d done, the war god reacting in very much the same way. He’d expected anger at the very least, not amusement. In hindsight, the druid should have thought of it, the god of war would unequivocally enjoy a fight, or the skills or reflexes of warrior, of which — not to boast — the druid had.
"Atticus." He said plainly, it wasn’t his true name, but he had no cause to use it for decades now. He went by Atticus like it was his, and even his dog had taken to calling him as such. The only ones that called him by his name of old was his gods and goddesses of old, a fitting situation. His hand slid from the back of his neck to his side, resting there; he wasn’t naive to think that all threat was gone, (he still had his guard up), but he certainly, relaxed enough, if not just to mirror the mood of the other. "So I’ve been told." Maybe there was a certain thrill of it, but half the time he’d been forced to the edge, and walking the line was the only way to live. It was hardly good survival skills, but Atticus supposed that if he had managed to live past twenty one hundred, he was doing something right.
There was a long moment of simply waiting, muscles taut and tense as he regarded the other. He could knock him down, he could get into a fight--but this was a godkiller. Ares didn't have any doubt about his own abilities and strengths, so it wasn't any bit of insecurity that was holding the warrior back. He found this little shit amusing, a thorn in his side, but one that snagged his curiosity in the meanwhile. He tilted his chin up, looking down his nose at the druid as he piped up with his name in that simply given answer. Atticus. Fine. He had a damned name to go with that face, and that was all he wanted. It took the other taking a more relaxed feel for Ares to finally take a casual stance, his vision still sharply kept on the man as he stepped back a half-step. "Atticus. Fair enough, as long as you know you walk that fine line." He quipped the words, as sharp as any blade as he turned then, intent on taking his leave. "We'll keep in touch." It wasn't a suggestion, wasn't some warm-hearted tiding, or anything of that friendly sort. It was foreboding and, just perhaps, containing some undercurrent of a threat.
At once, her head drops from him and goes to prepare his water. Drawing
the water at the temperature she knew he liked, then she went to get both his robes and a towel. Hebe knew this routine well, although it had been some time since she’s had to serve him like this, she memorized what he preferred. Whatever kept Ares happy kept her out of his way. Momentarily, she glanced over her shoulder to where he stood, her lips parted and then a sigh sounded. She stood frozen, her back straight as she faced him with nervousness. ” Your bath is drawn, is there anything else you require? “
As Hebe worked to get the bath started the wargod continued with shedding himself of his armor-wrought shell. It laid in a path from where he had begun to rid himself of the pieces finally to the bath that had been drawn for him. There was hardly a glance given to the woman, the scant flicker of his vision from the corner of his eyes as she stood with such rigidity and form. He slid into the water bare, exhaling in a long breath and thinking for a moment about how to respond to that last question. "An answer--I require an answer. Tell me--" He drawled the words, head tipping back and eyes closed, all the ire and vitriol that had been in his blood seemingly stilled by the steaming water. "Why is it you stand there as if I will strike you?"
"War, one fought in shadows and largely undocumented. One mere mortals sometimes tread upon, knowingly or not." And it changes them. For his current job as a private detective, he’d worked with the police as a consultant or outsourced help, on a number of cases he had personal interest to. Some were of the deicide of fellow gods, and some were of the remains of those that had foolishly attempted to harm him or his kin, and some were both.
"Let me rephrase: that they have killed, and will kill again; and seldom do they care for collateral damage. In the words of the modern age: shit happened, people and gods died. And fighting back is what we’re good at. It’s a war between us and them.” Ares thirsted for battle, this the Watcher knew well. But before he could continue, his thoughts flittered in unease, mind latching on to a threat he knew well by now.
His left palm itched, all but confirming what his mind thought, the brand Bjarkán, signifying revelation, glowing the faintest of blue: a telltale sign that danger was near. “And it seems this meeting has not gone unnoticed.” He jerked his head ever so slightly at his eight o’clock, not enough for a mortal to notice, but just so that Ares could decipher it’s meaning.
"Ah, no more banners or drums, hmm?" He snorted briefly, biting the tip of his own tongue to withheld any further comment as he listened to the Watcher. Warring was different now--there were no screeching of blades meeting, the physical prowess of trained warriors clashing in open field or anything such as that. War was more advanced, fought with drones and guns. Ares had opinions on guns, and none of them were good. Battle, to him, was not about who could end it the quickest, but how it was fought. "Have killed?" That caught the attention of the wargod, his brows knitting together and eyes shadowing with a rage that burned deep into his core. Mortals? Filthy mortals had killed a god? If Heimdall knew exactly how to bait the god he was doing a fine job of it. He grunted, back straightening, vision kept before him as he dealt with this new bit. The slight motion of the Watcher's head paired with those softer words riled up a fire Ares knew well, and he grinned.
"Let the fucker come." His smile was venom, all sharp corners and foul intentions as he rolled his shoulders. "It's been a while."
It had been a long day. Customers were in and out in a steady stream and she’d had to go so far as bake extras of several items. She was in the back washing dishes and putting things away when she heard the bell over the door ring, indicating that someone had walked into her bakery. She must have forgotten to turn off the open sign. She shuffled back into the main part of her shop, not really looking to see who was there at first.
"I’m sorry we’re actually-" she looked up and saw a very familiar face. One that she’d loved dearly in a life time long ago. "-closing." She stared as she mumbled the last word. "I haven’t seen you in a very long time, Ares. What are you doing here?"
Jeans and leather-clad, the man looked like he fit. There were dark circles under his eyes, a sense of wearing thin about his persona as he was forced to deal with the hubbub of the mesh and mortals throughout the streets. This wasn't something he preferred, but alas, when one lived forever sometimes biding into territories that were unfamiliar were met with surprising results. The bakery had been somewhere to dive into to extract himself from the street--it wasn't as if Ares actually enjoyed sugary delights or things like that. He had a comment prepared on his lips, the words about to drip off of the edge of his tongue when he turned to the figure who was already halfway through telling him that the store's hours were coming to an end. Recognition filtered through his system only after the other had said his name. The wargod shrugged, head rolling to one side. "Finding things to keep me busy. Now, I think the real question is what you're doing here? A bakery?"

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[little talks]
His question was not original, nor was it difficult to answer. The queen had heard the ponder, or something similar more than a few times. It seemed to her that those who asked the questions in the first place didn’t seem to appreciate or agree—or mishaps just misunderstood—why she remained as one of the dual rulers of the Underworld.
“ Because inside death, there is peace. Everyone fears that time of life, when they must pass from the green pastures and move on to their final resting place. When honestly, it ceases all pain. Death provides peace for the innocent and justice for the evil, keeping the balance of life together. Creating life is a good thing, but dipping one’s hands in death is on the same scale as peace in life for you cannot have one without the others. You are found in battles, gore, the pain of a war wound. There is a rare joy about such an experience, and those who find themselves thirsting for more battles understand the joy to be found in the dance of battle. Such as it is in my husband’s realm. Surely you can understand what I speak of? “ If any of her relatives could relate what she was saying, it would be Ares. Persephone was hopeful of such matters. The two of them hadn’t ever truly seen eye to eye before, but there was always room for change.
Peace in death. He should have assumed that the dread lady of the underworld would have the most exquisite and fitting sort of line to deal out--granted she had likely been tortured with questions like this from anyone who bothered to open their mouth. Still, he listened, stilled enough to enjoy the answer that she did have. It wasn't some rushed excuse to get him to shut up, and instead bribed him with a bit of thought to really digest and understand. His dark eyes fixed on the woman, his head tilted just a bit before a smile slowly grew on there--it was a small and trivial thing, the curve of his lips, and whether it was because she drew parallels to his own specialties, or due to something else entirely, was wholly up in the air. "And here I was thinking you'd deal me an answer just to get me to shut my mouth. Bravo, dear Lady of the Dead, you've spoken true." He rebounded with crass words, initially, to try to mask whatever note she struck that shook down to the marrow of his bones--even if just barely. "I can understand finding something of beauty in places that don't necessarily look like a breeding ground for such things, but I can't say I can agree with the whole peaceful bit--that simply is something that doesn't agree with me naturally."
hello friends, i am still alive and whatnot, despite my lack of being active here the past few days. relatives were in town but they are at last gonneee~ i will be working through drafts and queuing those suckers to post over the next day or so to buy me some sanity time!
Who is your FC?
Frank Grillo!from the Purge: Anarchy, Warrior, and CA: TWS!
tagged by: whereherloyaltieslie
repost. don’t reblog.
[ basics ]
name: J~ and/or Skele age ( in dog years ): 175?! (if 1hume=7doge) closest tourist attraction: Hollywood relationship status: Taken!
[ personal ]
job or student : job childhood dream occupation: a firefighter and/or dinosaur wrangler favourite parent : mother celebrity look-alike : noNE? apparently kate mara shoe size : 9 song title to describe you : Angry Nerd Rock
[ the nitty gritty ]
who shot first :HAN IT'S ALWAYS HAN fuck lucas and his revisions. console or pc : pc vanilla or chocolate : both. marvel or dc : tbh they both make me sad recently so IMAGE (Saga <3) download or support the artist : download and support the artist (tbh artists make most of their money from shows) is your copy of ps legitimate : hahahahahahaha did you buy winrar : nope do you read the terms and conditions : never peanut or jam first : jam forever because peanut butter is gross woody or buzz : woody favourite chip flavour : sea salt & vinegar
tag people that I can remember at the moment: @anyone who wants to do it
Mythology Meme -> Greek Gods
Deimos was the god of dread and his twin brother, Phobos, was the god of fear. They were sons of Ares, the god of war, and Aphrodite, the goddess of love. They often accompanied their father into battle, driving his chariot and spreading terror in their wake. As sons of Aphrodite, the twins also represented the fear of loss. In classical art the two brothers were usually represented as youths.

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[pestering]
[ I prefer he says and the twist to her lips is a wordless ‘of course you do' that's acerbic despite the complete lack of sound. He was a shark, Meg decided, and she blinked, thought my, what big teeth you have, while divine incisors as white as the aforementioned bone sank into the flesh of an apple. ( Meg lackadaisically pretends she doesn’t hear the c r u n c h of marrow in the crisp snap of the apple. ]
❝ He’s married to Lady Spring. If The Dread Queen wanted the shores of the Styx to be fertile and verdant as the banks of The Nile they would be. The b e t t e r question is what side effects come pack & parcel with produce grown in chthonic soil. ❞
[ Counter question laid on the table like a hand of cards as she presumptuously wrests a bottle of wine from the decorative offering. Quick cover for cursory appraisal of the space around them before she goes navigating about the room ( pilfered libation in tow ). Before she claims a seat and then doubles up on presumption by stretching the length of one leg out to pull close the second chair to prop her feet on. ]
❝ Moot point, though. I bought this at Costco. ❞
There it was, a diffused shrug and all too smug smirk at the reaction the woman have him. Despite being restless and thrust into the position of entertaining an unannounced visitor, he was in a rare mood that was nearly agreeable with the situation. He continued to chew at the apple, leaning against counter top, the slight raise of his brows the only evidence that he was paying attention when an answer was given to his asinine question. "Well yes, but I would assume that anything bourne from that land wouldn't look so hearty or fre----" He stopped mid-word, the weight of the words uttered by the other hitting him full force throughout his quick response. His jaw stopped and there was a sliver of sudden amusement paired with a color of apprehension as he savored that thought. Hades would not. Then again, what could that soil do? The wargod was halfway through contemplating if undead souls made an apple more tart or sweet when he caught the sight of the underling snatching up the bottle of wine. "Costco?" He choked on the bit of apple, the hard laugh that came without permission wrecking his attempt to breathe and speak at the same time. His hand clapped against his own chest, his head tilted back and smile splitting his face into a sort of cruel delight. "Oh, you are a treat. So really this basket is looking a bit stingy then? Aren't their bottles supposed to be the size of a toddler?" He moved as he spoke, wounded apple left on a counter top as he retrieved a pair of heavy mugs ---- wine glasses, or really anything glass, was a step too fine for the war god's personal use.
✺ ——- ” — careful there, tiger. “
chuckle filtered from lips, as same digits tapped in thrumming cadence over his smile. a delighted wrinkle of her nose, before the goddess moved to lounge once more over chaise, inspecting the deity before her.
” you are a god of war, and the accoutrements thereof suit you perfectly. just as inspiring jealousy in the hearts of certain other goddesses suits me, i daresay. whoops. “
there was something bewitching about that smile in the slightest of touched and how she could at any time utterly arrest his thoughts, his motives, his very actions with the fleeting gestures that he found himself caught within. the sway of her step, the casual stretch of her torso, and that ring of laughter could render him paralyzed. oh this was his goddess of addiction and obsession l o v e. "you don't say——do you confess to using me? you cruel and wretched thing, and with whose jealous notions are you enticing?" he took his time in stepping close, a rare display good nature radiating off of his every word.
;; no stranger to me
ofwxr
Ginny Bauer was no stranger to hard nights. Ginny Bauer is no stranger to dangerous men. Ginny Bauer is no stranger to egotistical names- Ares, this one called himself. Sure. And she was Nike. (she had introduced herself as she always does- “Call me Em.”) Her current employer had her as backup for this man with the strange name. Not that he needed it. Good fucking god. He used his hands. Ginny Bauer was no stranger to not being needed. She is there to keep things from going wrong. She is there to handle it if it does go to shit. A very pricey insurance policy- though the goods she was insuring were well worth her fee. Delicate matters required a prudent actor, but also someone not afraid to pull the trigger. It was all a matter of pressure and release. Every action must be controlled, anticipated, planned for. Or, at least, reacted to appropriately. Now, as the young woman closed the gap between herself and the dangerous man with the name, she didn’t quite know just how to react appropriately. What was this that stalled her feet- awe? Fear? Some sort of self-preservation? She was fairly certain she had rid herself of that pesky habit. Interesting that it would pop up now. Afterall, she was no stranger to dangerous men. She looked to him for a short moment- her expression passive as she considered him. She had long ago mastered the art of the poker face- a job requirement. What should she say? She had no skin in this game. All that mattered was her reputation- the job was done. She couldn’t care how it was done. She could talk, she could diffuse situations with a few words, but this- Good job. Nice work. You preformed adequately to the specifications set forth by your client. No. She chose silence. The small woman took a pack of cigarettes from her pocket- Luckies, blues- and opened them. There were only two left. She offered the open pack to him, sharp, intense gaze as still as the rest of her. She only moved what she needed to- her arm was isolated in movement as she extended to him. Her back was straight, chin held high. Unblinking, unspeaking, no trace of a tremor in her hand as she held the white pack aloft for the man to pluck out a cigarette. Of course he smoked- he was in the business. (he was just out of arm’s reach. she wasn’t getting any closer to him.) The RV point was far enough away from the job that they could catch their breath, share a smoke, and then part ways until happenstance brought them together again.
There was something particularly thrilling about this line of work. Sure, it was no roaring battle, there were no open fields, no hoards of men clashing with metal and leather, no banners streaking the skyline, and no drums or horns to herald what was to come. This was different work, but warring all the time. Ares was given names and locations, and it didn't matter how he got what was needed to be done, just that it was a guarantee --and it was always damn guaranteed. The thrill in this was in the sudden stop of the pulse from beneath his fingertips, his very hands the instruments of death. Already the rosy tingue of red that marked sharp, heavy contact was fading from the areas that he struck with, the sharp angles of his elbows hardly scuffed while those faint splits in his knuckles were well on their way to repairing themselves and stitching close all on their very own. He had been dabbing at the stray spray of red that arced along the edge of his undershirt up his abdomen, his mouth a tight line as he jotted down the mental note of needing to pick up a few more next time he went out. Over that went the button up, a crisp black fabric tucking into his belted waist, the sleeves rolled halfway up his arms and collar open at his throat. As he closed the distance between him and-- --- Em? Yes. Just Em. handler and overseer of this messy party. --he found himself in one rare mood. It was the adrenaline, dumping into his bloodstream and running everything on high. This was delectable, this rush of a job well done. It was with eyes clouded with that very adrenaline and hefty amounts of mirth that he saw the curt cut of each line the woman held--the stiff arm, the taut posture, and the secure personal space around her that suggested a tone he interpreted as standoffish. In juxtaposition there he was sauntering with a roll in his step that spoke of a certain level of ease, his weight distributed unevenly between his feet as he came to a halt, his hair disheveled and a sharp smirk curving that mouth in a manner that was wholly self-satisfactory. "I don't bite." He quipped the words as he leaned in, plucking out one of the remaining cigarettes and flashing the woman a shark-like grin. The end of the smoke where he held it was already stained, that red transferring from thumb to paper. "Are you normally so quiet?"
I Shall Not Fail My Rendezvous
Elbow grease and effort he knew all too well. His roughened hands was the one thing that never did match his ballroom appearance (that and his beard, so terribly out of style) - roughened by callouses and scars from rope and nets cutting into his flesh. He was a scrawny 6’5” scarecrow until the age of sixteen — hauling tens upon tens of kilos of fish for hours on end was a make or break job — either get the muscle to perform it, out fall out into the sea.
But that was of no importance here; not in this city, not in this scene, not in these times. No one wanted an uneducated, simple fisherman as their companion and conversation partner; they wanted someone intelligent, intellectual - someone rich and leisured who had the common touch.
And that was what the Host has given them.
He never shook hands with the flappers, at least, lest his secret be revealed. No wealthy man had such rough hands, not unless they tried working themselves to death earning that wealth.
That and the beard.
The beard belonged in the previous century, though no one seemed to mind its existence other than a peculiar little blonde that had pointed it out once, in the past. He had started growing it out in the late summer of 1918, once the shrapnel wound on his chin started to heal. It was the only one that healed for a long time.
He had been bedridden for six months, his knee shattered. Three of them he spent in a hospital in France — and come November, once the Germans surrendered (six days after his twenty eighth birthday. Happy birthday), another three months at home. He waltzed about on crutches when he could. Later, only one. He left it on the dock when he left for Atlantic City in early 1920.
(The pain wasn’t gone. The pain was still very much present. He simply powered through it, ignored it — he noticed how once he repeated a certain lie enough times, he would forget that it was not the truth. Same went for his wounded joint. So long as he didn’t acknowledge the pain, it wasn’t really there.)
The smile on his lips grew, brow raising in a mixture of gratitude and curiosity as the other man offered him his own cigarettes. Personally, he disliked rolling tobacco - tasted like burned grass - but it was a nice change, for once, to be offered. They seemed intriguing enough, at least — certainly not like anything he’d seen around the ballroom.
"Much appreciated, lover. Thank you." He murmured as he placed his Lucky Strike back into the silver case and reached to retrieve one of the strangers’ smokes. The expression on his face only brightened, brows going higher and smile growing into a full-blown grin as the man’s hand went to his own and he leaned in close to light his own cigarette. He couldn’t quite help the low chuckle, a rumbling thunder with that deep, husky baritone of his, that came from the pit of his chest.
Well, well, well.
"Well, aren’t you just a heap of trouble?" He asked, gaze turning away only momentarily as he shielded the flame with his hand and ducked his head in order to light his own smoke. It tasted…
peculiar.
Such warm hands, he had almost said, but caught himself in the act and said nothing for a moment as he returned the lighted and case to their appropriate place, in the lapel of his jacket. No need to be blunt (as if he weren’t being blunt enough as it were — though it wasn’t often that another man placed his hand on the Host’s. Certainly not around these parts).
Something about his smile was… off. Surprising as it may be — the Host hadn’t a great way with words, not when he truly needed them. He couldn’t put his finger on it to save his own life; but while his own smirk was devilish, the stranger’s was… god, he couldn’t think of a word. There was something off-putting about it — as if he had some sort of ill intentions.
Though that couldn’t be the case, could it? When the host smiled, it seemed as if he was out to seek nothing but trouble — but he didn’t seem malicious, did he?
"I do beg your pardon — I meant no offense, my dear. A simple term of endearment."
Hand sliding into the pocket of his trousers, he leaned back against the wall and had another long drag off the cigarette. Still peculiar. Just what was it?
"Oh, nothing you won’t be able to handle." There it was, that familiar devilish smirk, the ever so slightest show of teeth. Oh, this was worth losing his break over. Very much so. ”Oh — where are my manners? The name’s Galway, darling.” He placed the cigarette between his lips and offered his now-free hand for the shaking. “The pleasure is all mine, I’m sure.”
Trouble. Already he was easily identified as trouble. Whether it be the way the man hit the nail right on the head with that observation, or that chuckle that held such a note of good nature that couldn't rightfully be ignored, there was just a color of genuineness in the following twist of his lip. Just barely, and just for a fleeting moment, the way one corner of his mouth quirked upright in that apostrophe was something completely out of his control. He wrought trouble wherever he tread, leaving it behind in every footprint like some disastrous wake. Some times it was distinguishable from the get-go, and other times it was a slow and steady burn, something that festered and bloomed far after he made his touch. "You have no idea." The words were mumbled around his smoke as he rocked back on his heels, taking a deep breath and inhaling the concoction that were packed in that paper. It did lessen his nerves a bit, took the edge of it gave him an ease that didn't come naturally. The tightly-strung god was far too easy to rile up, and he wasn't here for that. He was here because he could feel that haunt, it tugged to him like a fishing line wound about his sternum. "No offense taken, although I will caution I'm not on the receiving end of many terms of endearment." And he had a habit of being so damn contrary all the time that didn't need to be said yet. Truth be told he wasn't all too keen on being on the receiving end of such casual terms with a mortal man. Yet there he stood, allowing it for the meantime and not bothering to pick apart the other pet names that followed. It must've been easier that way, sticking to delicate names that suggested an intimacy rather than committing names to heart. It was awfully clever, and Ares had to appreciate that at the very least. Charisma seemed to exude from the stranger, in that flash of teeth, the compliment ridden words, and the casual stance. "I'd say you give me too much credit, but I happen to agree with you on that. I can handle most things thrown my way." He plucked his smoke from his lips with his left hand, turning his head to exhale as he reached out with a hand to grasp onto the one offered. Rough--this character, this Galway had hands that have worked, hands that had seen time and harshness. He appreciated that. His own were thick with callouses, and still so warm, as if that godly glow that lingered beneath his skin was just itching to get out at any bare touch. "Galway, I have so say it's nice to meet you, and if we're honest I'm never too happy meeting anyone." --unless they were across him on a battlefield and armed to the teeth--he did enjoy that. "Ares." Ancient Ares, g o d of w a r deity of hate and bloodshed ageless and dripping with p o w e r and lethal danger. He held onto that hand for a bit too long, his grip steady, not overtly strong or demanding, but still firm. "Well met, Galway."
[bare-boned humility]
Hephaestus watched his sibling with nothing but disdain spreading all through the contours of his face. Each wrinkle moved slightly to indulge in the general hatred the smith felt for the god of war. He cared little for any conversation between them and stared down at his own feet making it evident that the smith though his time was being wasted. Of course though he wanted to hear everything that would come out of the other’s mouth if only to laugh at any appreciation Hephaestus would force out of the other.
“Really.” He replied to Ares’s first declaration. The smith thought that the other lacked any true common sense. “My original response called forth any specifics you might have. I do not take commission solely on the verses of it being something you need without telling me what it is.” He would keep taunting. Hephaestus felt he had a right to it.
He chuckled, “How difficult must that have been on you. How endearing , my work is unparallelled. I would take that as a compliment if it was common fact that no one can create at my level.” He replied, “What kind of armor?” Hephaestus hadn’t agreed to anything yet, he just wanted to know the true specifications that this job would entail before agreeing or not.
This was perhaps one battle Ares regrets starting--well, half regrets. He does not regret his actions or his decisions, but he does regret the animosity that spawned from it. Love was a weapon, the most wicked of them all, and Ares had done everything he could to make sure he got he wanted in that department, no matter who it harmed. If his ego and pride could be checked, he may just feel a bit of remorse about the whole scenario. Admitting a wrong was, and will always be, the most difficult thing he could be pressured to do. T o d a y certainly wasn't going to be the day where that all c h a n g e d . The response from his sibling stung, and instantly his bull-headed nature wished nothing more than to take the bait and turn this into a damn scene. The taunting didn't stop there, with the cripple even laughing at his request. The harsh line between Ares' brows deepend as he ground his teeth, his scowl written in every other one of his features other than that line of a mouth. "Breastplate. " If he could reply with single words this would be ideal. "The last one became dented right where the leather clasps it shut." His hand moved to his left side sluggishly, as if it was an absent motion that he didn't rightfully mean to make. "The pinching isn't the issue, it's the fact that it draws attention."

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offline
hell yeah, two open starters up for all mutuals to nab onto (and if any fancy the anon-sending-prompt idea feel free to shoot over more), which means I actually got something done today rather than just passing out after work! tomorrow is my day off, so I'll be able to dedicate more than just the measly time I have between getting home and passing out to do drafts & replies~
[wαrfαre] || open
If there was any inclination as to what really got Ares to tick, really one needn't look too far. The strict taboo mixing of gods and mortals had long since been burned--granted it wasn't like he paid much heed to those sorts of limitations anyways, his countless offspring recorded throughout time were evident proof enough. Furthermore, the even more precious taboo of gods keeping strictly to their own kind had also been rendered null and void. This was a sense of chaos at it's finest--gods mixing with gods, spilling from their heavenly thrones, or realms, and mixing with the vast bodies of the mortals they governed over. The best result to come from this was, in Ares' perspective, the warring. Before there hardly needed to be reason to send hoards of humans thronging against one another on the premise of whose holy text and beliefs were true. Now direct orders could be given, and that was so much more efficient. Fights could break out from the direct word of a god rather than some interpretation of such. Despite it once being a large tourist trap, Ares couldn't shake the heart he had for Thessaloniki, and thus his main head of operations was there. War already had ravaged the lands, peaceful places to visit for the beaches were scarce now that the gods were plotting out their own areas and starting skirmishes. The war god may not have Thrace anymore, but the world has changed and he couldn't dally around trying to render it back to how it was. He would change with it. The cluttered, urban warehouse in the Grecian city was difficult to locate, no actual number or street name correlated with it, and Ares didn't exactly recruit to his cult cause like others did. His followers came to him and proved their worth, and any gods intending to become allies suffered the same fate. Ares never did like to make things easy for others. Smoke casually balanced between teeth and steel-toed boots propped up on a fold-out chair opposite him, he was in a state of casual relaxation while going through the notations of the day in clear view of those open doors to the street. If he knew there was someone there to get his attention, the wargod certainly didn't show it. ---again, he didn't like to make things too easy.