#a. starters

‘ It’s a little different than the UNDERWORLD, of course.                   I would never be able to get used to the draft. ’

And it’s true. Her chosen home is quite the opposite of Hades’.  Her home is familiarly victorian, nearly mortal–– even occupied by mortal youths ( as any good cult requires ) unlike the old souls who swim the styx. 

There are a few repetitive noises that you can keep relative time with, ‘Dite has learned. Twenty creaks in the castle, thirty two doors slamming down the hall, three hundred off-time ticks from the dungeon’s obsolete grandfather clock. Exempt from these sounds: the scratch of a quill. No, this bouquet of delicate repetition can only be served in utter, mind numbing silence. 

And as Aries continues her raw stare at the textbook, ‘Dite decides that five minutes is time enough to theoretically reduce the amount of mugwort in this potion to a safe dose.

“You’re not serious, are you?” 

Not ringing any bells.  

The face, itself, is recognizable.  One of those boys who know their material, know their books. She bets that he could trace by–laws and legislation easy as the green veins like rivers over the back of his hand.  

( or easy as he combs his hair into that fucking part every morning. )

And yet, not a name for that face. No recollection of the events he’s outlining. And he’s outlining it pretty clear: “ LAST WEEK. WE HAD A  DEBATE IN CLASS. YOU WON. I’M A GOOD SPORT. MY HAIRCUT’S STUPID. ”

“Listen, I respect your line of business, I really do. But isn’t there a reason the catholics inve- nted confession–– or?                                       Am I missing something?”

She opens the door, and it’s him,