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.

power has a costume of its very own. it’s a skin someone can choose to wear, or shape to fit their own body. every inch, every hair, it’s all presented in such a way that it commands & it leads. some people choose their costume --- judgemental eyes, a quick tongue and a taste for iron. others are thrust into its suit --- weighted responsibility marking them with tired words and lines of exhaustion etched into their brow. but power has an easier design, threaded into the smartness & the regalia of a uniform, fitted and firm. it’s so easy to notice someone in that sense who holds so much power within their hand, by the tidy organisations of their emblems upon their chest, by the manner of which their coat tails flap in the breeze, but the shine of their boot and by the crisp finish of their studded jacket. yes, power has a flavour; something recognisable and incredibly hard to loosen, regardless of what you find yourself doing.

for general hux, at least, he was yet to shed much of his uniform. his costume consisted of entirely black, smarter clothes than often worn for a simple days work. freshly pressed, he never appeared dishevelled, nor did he ever wish to. his costume was that of a military man after all, his mind long since having had that drilled in, repeated notion of tidiness & well kept grooming. he retained his name as general also, for there was hardly any real reason to mark himself down nor deny himself the position he had worked so hard for. so much had bled for the role, so much of his strength & resolve --- he was almost bred to not surrender such a thing, his grasp at power a resolve he would undoubtedly die for. indeed, even as he wandered by himself through the halls of this one particular building in the city, he was dressed as though he were soon to give command back on board his vessel, turning a sharp eye to the horizon as he set the course & deployed the firepower.

it was supposedly a firearm store, supplying broken or otherwise forgotten about weapons which former civilians or even older, far less interested ones had discarded during their visit. beaten guns, pistols lacking triggers, swords with their blades halved -- they were fragments of history, as if he was looking upon a memorial of war. he soon came to find that whilst he had initially thought the place to be devoid of life, that he wasn’t entirely alone at all. sharp footsteps sounded in the silence of his own and eventually, the two lonely ships did meet somewhere in the middle of the ocean of the weaponry graveyard, both standing before a fire-smouldered ruin of what once was a large cannon. “ war is unavoidable, even here, it seems. “ he voiced his thoughts aloud, thoughts of how war bred chaos, how chaos bred power.

the two brothers had spent a majority of their afternoon in the crystal clear blue waters by the home they'd fashioned for themselves. physical features appeared to be one of the few similarities the boys shared. while Rix had been the one to insist upon a hut, a foundation, a home, Mads was quite content to spend the rest of his life as a nomad, never setting roots, making a home from whichever little alcove they stumbled upon. Rix might have settled for his twin’s preference, had they not discovered a village by the coast that worshipped creatures like them. 

A BLUE BIRD PERCHED ATOP A LOG NEAR THE RIVER BANK. Some distance away a girl stood on an old moss-covered bridge. Camera raised close to her eyes, she zoomed in on the creature. But before she could snap a picture, something to the left had caused the bird to flutter away. She moved the frame in its direction. There was a click followed by a bright light. Amano lowered the camera, she had forgotten to turn off the flash.

The prize look so nice. It was something Fran wasn’t able to get because she needs to win this game, but she didn’t exactly understand what was the point of the game. To win, and then get a prize. Fran understood what she had to do, but a part of her fear that she would break the machine, and she wouldn’t be able to win! That was almost upsetting, but she looked around to see if there was anyone willing to play for her. It was just to shoot a stream of water in an arrow until the ship made it to the top.

It didn’t take long for Fran to spot someone that could help her out. Though something about him seemed... familiar, but was sure she had never met him. It was the power he had... a strong power that resides within him. Hesitating at first to ask for help, she look to see if there was anyone else that seemed capable. Hey eyes were drawn back to that power. Setting her mind to it, the Berserker approach the other, lightly tapping on the other’s back before pointing at the game stand.