Prospero's desire for revenge spanned thousands and thousands of years. There had been a time, after the death of his brother, where he thought he would've been able to move on from that. As he buried his mother, he had thought it would be best to let the past stay in the past. There was always that one little voice in the back of his head that told him to burn down everything and everyone that went against what he believed. Families turned on each other so much that he couldn't even really comprehend it. That wasn't his only vendetta though. No, his only real problem came with the gods that sat on their thrones and thought themselves to of enough importance that they would take the body of someone like him without so much as batting an eye. That was what they had done and Prospero was sure that they would attempt it again if they wanted to. Prometheus had been fine though, he guessed. The guessing part came with the tiefling not knowing if the avariel was even remotely emotionally or mentally still there. He sure as hell wasn't, but he wasn't about to tell anyone that. "You must have some lucky charm, Pros. Still here alive and kicking and you're not even as pretty as me."

Yeah, he definitely didn't like this at all. Prometheus seemed like he was just brushing off whatever sickness had overtaken them, but Epi was absolutely not the same. What if he got even sicker? How was he supposed to deal with that? He had to get back to his animals. If he left them alone for too long, they would miss him. And he would miss them, too. He turned on Pros' couch and looked over at his brother. "ProPro, this sucks." He sniffled and then looked around for a second. "Hey, where's Milo?"