#evnoikos

HEADCANONS || accepting

Send ✄ for a PET PEEVE headcanon.

the one thing that is guaranteed to tick harm off is intentionally attempting to hurt another whether emotionally, physically, or mentally. she has been at the mercy of others in her life before, especially following hephaestus’s curse & the pantheon’s passive regard towards the death of her family. she never wants anyone to feel the way she did during the hellenic period & has become a champion for the downtrodden & the minorities.

❝ && to what do i owe this v i s i t ? most of our kind is content to leave me to my solitude. curses have a way           of pushing away the pantheon, it seems. ❞

evnoikos

        He can’t say how long he’s been out there, up in the sky, soaring for miles. All he knows is the fresh air that whirls around him, the shine of the sun on his skin pebbles with goosebumps from the crisp wind currents, the chattering of birds when they accompany his flight. All he knows is this paradise. Zephyros will glide so high that he disappears into the clouds, only to come back down, diving into the thrill of freefalling. His wings always catch him just before plummeting too close to an early death in frigid seas, then he swoops, ascends into an elegant arc to rejoin the vast haven above.

        It never fails to clear his mind from any troubles or woes, leaving nothing but utter bliss in such alarming quantities he has to label himself an addict. Good news is that there are no withdrawals from flying endlessly. None that cause painful shakes or vomits, just a deep ache or brash impulse to join the wild once more. Zephyros has held this off for far too long. He can’t even recall the last time he has indulged this passion of his, always so busy playing the mortal disguise and bagging responsibilities. For his sanity’s sake he will not deny himself this euphoria as temporarily as he has. His soul will wither to dust, he is certain.

       And he wants to keep going on forever, but his wings finally cry out for the break they so need, coercing the deity to search for a perch to rest. He expects to find some large rock protruding from Poseidon’s kingdom, but his eyes spot something much better. There is land far below, full of lush greens, browns, and blues; an effervescent oyster that beckons to Zephyros. So he goes without a second thought.

        Bare feet touch soundless atop of ebony sand, the warm grains burrowing between his toes. On land again the wind just tickles his naked torso, more of a caress than the grappling hands when he flies. He idly scratches above his bellybutton as he peers around, curious if there are any natives or if he’s found a deserted sanctuary. Shrugging, Zephyros stretches his slender arms wide and mutters a pleased noise in his throat at the crackle-pop of joints along his spine.  A content exhale pushes out of his lungs as he flaps his wings a few times before he lets them recline on his back. He walks about, aimless, wondering if he might find shelter soon or a friendly face. High overhead he sees a bridge in the distance and cocks his head, musing where it may lead. Zephyros leaps the few miles it takes to get there, yet hesitates once he stands in front of the passage. Mountains make him a little nervous, but Zephyros swallows down his trepidation to walk across.

        It seems her relaxation is due to be interrupted as the bridge to Tubtakala creaks and groans in the fibers of her being, awakened by a stranger’s footing. Once closed lids drift open, wide, nerves leaping with the awareness of bare feet brushing the ancient roots. The sensation is ominous and loud, smarting like a whip to her subconscious before suddenly, it settles, wandering like a ghost up her spine, fanning out like a gust of wind to sprout goosebumps on her skin in the wake of its tidal wave. The queen sits upright overcome by an airy touch kissing at her form, dancing around like a lazy hurricane trapped in the confines of a bottle.  Squinting into the dimness of her surroundings, she rises, put off by the intensity with which she feels the presence of this newcomer.  There was a near familiarity about it, an inkling of a memory of a man she knew, but at the same time did not. Of someone as ancient and powerful as herself. 

        In a moment of trepidation at the approach of the stranger, the serpent queen is showing her true colours as a warrior ruler, shutting down the activities bustling through their village and preparing for what could be an attacker.  When all is done silence rains over the barren camp, the only evidence of life once stirring – the hot coals coned in the center of a stone circle. The air is thicker too, hot and cold at once, veiling the vibrant hues of the blanketed tents in a haze of muted smoke. Whomever this being was, they would soon come to discover that this place they were to enter was duality itself, the source of human nature, life and death and the realm in between.

        Standing behind a column of fog, it is her towering shield, protecting her from the eyes of the invasive immortal that has stepped foot onto her cobblestone. She waits, watches through the small holes that make up the pupils of the glowering, yellow eyes of her Gorgoneian mask. Painted with berries and the blood of pigs, its crimson hue is reminiscent of the life that flows through mortals. From the gaping, fanged mouth of the mask, a wicked tongue slithers out like a snake poised to strike.

        Cloth has returned to her form, printed fabric in a full dress that crosses over her left breast and around her neck in a halter, split at the adjacent hip into a handkerchief skirt that cuts off at her calves. She is adorned in bracelets and anklets and still her sacred jewels hang round her throat. In her left hand a staff is gripped, over several feet in length with the top splitting into two, hissing blue Cobras entwined around one another with a large, moonstone orb sitting atop their heads. Tied at the base of the serpentine bodies are various ornaments of feathers, stones, and skulls.