Edgar probably shouldn’t have had that last shot if he was being completely honest. The room had taken on a pleasant glow that he was fairly certain was not magical and in fact in his own head. No worries. A glow only made the night more exciting. He already had his jar filled and ready to set out to collect eclipse water tomorrow, and he didn’t have to work until Thursday. There was nothing about tonight that shouldn’t go right.

He did not stumble, thank you, as he made his way over to a corner of the room where he hadn’t really talked to anyone yet. “You know I figured there would be a little more dancing. Not in the mood? I bet you’ve got some moves hiding there if you really wanted to.” Probably not the best to shame people for not dancing if he wanted to keep this conversation going. “Watcha doing instead?”

Patience is one of the few virtues he can lay claim to, graceless thing that he is. He likes to think that it’s served him well through the years, observing from behind the scenes and waiting, because if there is nothing else he’s learned from his father, it’s that there is always an angle to be played.

This year’s Heteraidia though—two weeks straight of revelry and diplomacy and breeding disaster beneath civility—is testing that patience as it’s never been tested before. He doesn’t trust the additional help they’ve been forced to take on for such an extravagant affair, he trusts the visiting distant relations and their companies even less, and if one more snake-eyed reporter-type tries to wander somewhere they shouldn’t while ‘looking for the restroom’, he’s going to turn the Hunt into a free-for-all season on the entire guest list.

He shouldn’t; it defeats the purpose of this entire event after all, and Zeus would be less than pleased if he were to spend his frustration in such a childish tantrum. Yes, he really shouldn’t do something so rash and unreasonable..but it’s oh-so-tempting when he sees an unfamiliar silhouette crouched in front of the control room door, clearly fiddling with the lock.

Patience..patience..

You’ve been invited to Santana’s Se7en Deadly Sins birthday party; a sinful soiree to practice mischief and mayhem amidst your friends. This Friday, Club Halo is transforming into a den of sin and it’s going to be one hell of a party. The gates open at 9 pm and the chaos won’t stop until 3 am or until you pass out, whatever happens first. Food and alcohol will be provided. All guests will receive a gift bag courtesy of club owner Mercedes Jones.

@silvertintedpoison

She had not been back in the city long and already it was living up to her expectations. Having spotted a young woman sobbing in the shadow of a dark skinned creature, Erza automatically reacted.

However, rather than summoning her sword, she found herself in a sailor scout dress, bow in hand. Not about to question it, she drew its string, an arrow appearing. 

Snap. The arrow was released, lodging into the creature. 

It turned, sighted her and began to advance towards her. 

“Tch.”

She would never admit it, but the odd creatures that seemed to be making a menace of themselves around the city were a good distraction from the anger, the helplessness of finding herself back in the city that she had completely forgotten.

“Run!” 

The knight called to the sobbing woman, waiting until she had gone before continuing.

“I do not know what you are but I have no doubts you are some science project sent to cause even more misery by those who keep us here.”

Holding her bow out to the side, it began to glow a warm pink, transforming into her usual sword. Her grip tightened around the grip. She patiently allowed the beast to step closer, pushing aside the nagging heartbreak that seemed to be stabbing at her heart the nearer it got to her. 

“In the name of Fairy Tail…I’ll put an end to your sorrowful existence!”

As the lights flickered back on the room filled with a panicked buzz. The first thing Quinn did was scan the room for reactions, before pulling out a note pad she had stashed away in her clutch bag just in case. Scribbling away furiously, she dodged her way through the crowd of people flooding for the exit, accidentally smacking into somebody sending her notepad flying to the floor. “Crap.” she muttered.  

‘Mother’ is a word he hasn’t uttered in nigh thirty years now, not since he’d been seven and stood in black static, watching them lay the woman who’d birthed him to rest in cold earth. The soft syllables made a home in the hollow spaces between his ribs then, where they had been content to lie dormant and harmless most days of the year..until this woman came along and ruined that state of equilibrium.

‘Father’ is a role easier to replace—not easy, mind, but easier certainly. It helps that his father dies in front of him, red on white on polished marble a tangible thing he can at least categorize and process as real. It helps more that he has a face to pin the blame upon, and that face is soon removed from becoming a factor in any fledgling schemes of vengeance that may have taken root. So when Zeus steps into that recently vacated placing in his life, he accepts the replacement willingly enough.

Alas, the same cannot be said for Hera.

Some call it insane, say "baby you're so vein", But I'm living on overdrive all the time.