#reusstarter

where: the aegis stage event: near year festival

There was always a rush of adrenaline that came from performing. He was starting off earlier with reprising some of his acclaimed cinematic roles. Apollo, dressing in flowing silks, being over-the-top, and fawned over by citizens and fans, of course he was thriving. That high was unlike any other, and he’d be riding it even as he came off stage and back into the sea of others.

“We don’t have to talk about it.” He says casually as he begins to talk to a face. Any face, it doesn’t really matter, because who wouldn’t want to have a chat with him? 

When: January, 2130 - New Year Festival

Where: The Aegis Stage

Hera had to admit, she missed this. Politics were a necessity, but art kept her heart beating, and there was no place like Olympe for an artist. The festival was the epitome of Olympe’s creative soul, captivating every sense, submerging the guests and the residents in beautiful chaos. The surprises never stopped coming, even after thirty years. There was always a way to go deeper, brighter or darker.

The queen hadn’t perfomed in the last few years, and she certainly wouldn’t perform this time, but she still allowed herself to walk among the artists, feeling that unique energy take over. “Say whatever you want, no one can deny that this family knows how to throw a party.” She said to nobody in particular, amused to observe every detail of the stage.

It’s been forty-seven hours since the Heteraidia festivities officially kicked off, ten days since preparations began to intrude on daily life for those residents, and nearly two months since he learned that Zeus would be inviting his brothers - and the entirety of their respective retinues - to Olympe for the occasion. All told, Icarus has been wound tight since early November and he’s exhausted, wants nothing more than to vanish into his quarters and not emerge until the citadel in the sky is calm and quiet once more. But rest and privacy are luxuries he is not permitted at the moment, so he’s settled for bowing out of a trip to Electra Hours in favor of the somewhat less crowded lounge at Symposia. At least here he’s less likely to be surprised by one of the (numerous) people he’s been carefully avoiding over the last few days.

Of course as soon as he steps up to the bar for something to take the edge off, the sound of a door opening behind him says that was a poor assumption. Icarus keeps his eyes on the bartender while he knocks back a shot of ambrosia, then tells her to pour a few more and turns to the person who’s just slid into the place beside him with a smile that he hopes is less tense than it feels.

january is cool enough that coming close to noon, you can see your breath on the exhale, and the smoke that comes from bullets fired in quick-paced succession. ( he thought olympe would be warmer, honestly. ) the targets today are more mundane than they were yesterday at this time, red-and-white bullseyes that pop up in the thickets of forest and disappear as soon as they register they’ve been shot. he’s got a small arsenal laid out on the table next to him, right next to his second cup of coffee. a little risky, maybe, but who’s going to try and shoot achilles in the broad light of day?

legs kicked out and hunting rifle perched atop the railing, achilles moves for his mug when he spots the other person walking onto the platform. he’s been the only person out here for hours, now, ( he does get a little satisfaction from the thought he’s interrupting someone’s beauty sleep ) but it makes sense that would come to an end. “morning,” he greets, when he’s taken a sip. “feel like a little friendly competition?”

He switches off the recording. The holographic camera blanks over, one second shy of short-circuiting. There’s a reproaching look on his back - some media ant, some shutterbug, optic fiber louse with no grasp on the finish line. Someone who never understands what’s the rush.

His own reproach grows teeth. They’ve been here for hours. Whole day wasted, minutes and minutes of networking potential, over a breakfast shot. Ariadne paces forward. Throws out a hand. Right before speaking, he scours to remember what counts as profanity in Olympe - what counts as unforgivable. It wouldn’t do, dropping the ball on foreign territory.

theseus wouldn’t call it an argument—an argument insinuated that there were two sides to be had, that there might be gray space between the differing perspectives. he couldn’t very well call it an argument when he knew he was right. the woman at the stall, however, had something different to say about it. apparently, that was ‘ locally sourced onyx ’ and ‘ from before the time of rheus ’ and ‘ put that down, you’ll shatter it. ’ 

as if.

“you’d think they’d learn to make accessories not ugly, at the very least.” yes, he was speaking loudly to the first person he saw, and yes, he was gesturing directly at the woman’s stall. “shame no one in this infernal place seems to have anything well-crafted.” 

The bow is a welcome weight where it presses across trim span of her back. Rounded wood against shoulder blades. ( each step she takes sets it to jostle against a notch of her spine just shy of creating an ache she tells herself not to lean into. ) an old fashioned weapon : crude and out of place when she plucked it up, attached the accompanying quiver to her thigh. It had caused a rumble among those nearby who traced every motion she made with unfamiliar eyes that made everything far too personal for her tastes.