{OOC: Just another reminder here, particularly for the first half of the rp, that you can hover your mouse over the text of certain italicised animal sounds.}



7A: The Godmoot VII

“Thank you,” says the Falcon, giving a small nod of contrition as the eyes of the gathering fall to him once more upon the completion of the prior task. He had felt their questioning gaze on the back of his uraeus, and knew there was a need to placate them. And this task had been… acceptable, though not entirely perfect. He slowly spun around, making eye contact with each of the key figures in the room. Discreetly, he also cast his gaze upon the wise warrior woman who sat upon her silver throne rimmed with golden baskets. She sat underneath a violet crown of lapis, with her hands resting on arms that became snake-headed gorgons. The owl that ‘inspired’ the mortal had raised his suspicion, but the warrior woman had never left her chair. Just as the Highfather had promised. He keeps an eye upon her as he addresses the moot. “I am satisfied that the task was completed.”

“I am glad to hear,” says Zeus, studiously following the Moon’s glowing eyes to the seat of his daughter. He too had seen the owl, but he was confident that Athena had nothing to do with it. Though he had no doubt she would have acted under other circumstances, she was far too wise to make such a foolish mistake today. He knows that Horus will be suspicious, even if he chooses not to say it. Zeus too, however, was growing suspicious. “May I then ask you a question?”

“Yes?” Horus warily replies, refocusing again on the grandest of the thrones.

“What was your Sun doing?” he asks. The Anemoi themselves could not have sucked the wind out of the extravagant hall any faster. The children readjust themselves on their thrones. The other, gathered deities shuffle on their spots. The Father of Lightning doesn’t move, holding a commanding gaze towards the upstart Moon. Horus notes that the Mother of Olympus has not moved either. He had still yet to figure out her game. She had seconded this trial at the outset, but has proved to be anything but an ally since.

“Father Zeus,” Father Horus says, “have we not reached a place where this trial can continue without trouble? It seems you seek now to disturb that?”

“Mayhaps,” he concedes, “but I think it only fair that after spending so much time accusing us of wrongdoing that you should be held to the same standard. I ask of you again, what was your Sun doing when the mortal had taken his Leap of Faith? Why was he pulled from the flames?”

A pause overtakes the summit. Not for the first time, the Moon of the Nile feels the disquiet of his people begin to grow. His position is tenuous, and the Hellenic Skyfather knows this. ‘He’s testing me,’ he thinks. He is confident he will pass.

From his position at the base of the rainbow steps leading up to Zeus’s marbled throne, Horus looks up to the blue blanket hanging above. Though the Grecian sun was seated only several yards away - on a python skin that protected a polished golden throne etched with magical inscriptions - his own Sun would be found up there. In the blue. There was no central palace for the gods of Egypt. No mountain on the hill. No shining city. Just duty to the world, and duty to their people. But the blue was not the Moon’s domain. The black was. He knew many secrets about that powerful Sun, his mother had even learned and told him of Ra’s secret name. But there were still mysteries he had no answers to.

“In truth, we do not know,” he says, with a disarming sincerity. “I suspect that he worried about the very same force that worries us all, and that he thought himself able to influence the mortal so that our people would be safe.”

“A concern we all share,” adds Baldr. Horus notes his support once more, though suspicion is still king.

“That we do…” Zeus allows the thunder of his voice to quieten for a moment, before returning with a biting arc. “Even so, your Sun broke the truce.”

“We have been through this!” the Moon fires back. “The truce was broken by your Maiden of Discord! Even before that, Aphrodite’s vessel involved herself! It was then further shredded by the Trickster of Asgard, but you have the gall to accuse our fallen Sun? Dearest Zeus, we may not know the nature of the challenge that lies ahead of us, but we certainly know its form. Should we converse about that?”

His acerbic tongue is more forked than his beak would suggest. A tension lingers between the two kings once more, with neither ready to flinch.

“The seventh task is ready to commence!” calls Hermes from his stone seat.

“Shall we begin?” Horus, seemingly growing in stature before the Highfather’s eyes, asks.

“We shall…” reluctantly, he agrees.

~~~~~

“Darkness doesn’t quell light. Light quells darkness.
What are you going to do?”

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7B: The Cretan Bull





After an eternity in the Peloponnese, he finally had reason for his map to plot a new course. As the ship he had arranged passage on pulled into the Cretan harbour, the eerie calm of his trip across the Aegean struck a strange chord in his heart. There was something about this journey that felt different. Necessary even.

The king of Knossos was there to greet him, surrounded by a retinue of paid sycophants and stooges.


He jumped from gunwale to dock, the timber creaking, caught between the pressure of his feet and the lapping water. The king greets him with open arms.

“I’m glad you’re here!” he says, wrapping himself around the salted wayfarer. This pleasant facade made the man uneasy. “I’ve heard many stories about your deeds.”

The king pulls back and his contingent wrap themselves around the two as they begin to walk down a thin path. Dazzling red poppies dot the lush green grass that borders the trail, winding up towards the city. In the background, white limestone cliffs separate the island from the sky.

“I have a little problem that I’m hoping you could help me with,” the king continues.

“And what would that be?” the man replies. He finds it hard to believe that in such an idyllic environment there could ever be any issues.

“There is a bull terrorising our countryside,” the king says. “I need you to capture it, and take it from here.”

The man loses himself in his thoughts for a moment. A bull. Why does this feel so… familiar? So… important?

“Did you hear me?” the king impatiently snaps.

“Yes,” still-distant, he returns. Sort of. “Bull. Destruction. Get rid of it.”

“No!” With a stomp of his foot, the king blocks the path, squaring up against the peasant. “Not just ‘get rid of it’. The bull cannot die!”

“Why not?” the man asks.

“It cannot die!” the king repeats, without any further explanation.

“Okay,” he agrees. He doesn’t need an explanation. Something inside the man tells him he wouldn’t want to kill the bull anyway.

“I’ll give you as many men as you need,” the king says. “Just say the word.”

“No,” he raises a hand. “I have to do this on my own.”


~~~~~

To find the bull, all he had to do was follow the carnage. It was easy, really. Crops had been ripped from their beds, and orchard walls had been demolished. It was behind one of these walls that he got his first glimpse.

It was a divine white, as if a gift from the gods themselves.

~~~~~

On the second largest throne atop Olympus, with a sleek skin of seal covering white-marble streaked with gray-green and decorated with bright corals, lustrous gold, and incandescent pearls, the Father of the Sea leans forward.

~~~~~

In a rare moment of peace in the bull’s eternal rage, the man saw an opportunity. He slinked around the side of the stone wall, finding one of the many openings that the bull had made in its fury. He had to be careful with each step. The rubble was still loose, and any misstep could alert the beast. Delicately he stepped over the ankle-high remains at the bottom of the hole in the wall.

The other side was similarly littered with debris. He weaved his way through and crept up behind a small pillar.

The majestic Pearl-Coloured Bull was in front of him.

He lept, catching it from behind.

His arms wrapped around its massive neck and squeezed. It thrashed, but his resolve was firm. He clung to it for life, and slowly he felt the life ebb out of it.


~~~~~

It’s not the what. It’s the why.

~~~~~

Poseidon watched.

~~~~~

He released. His aching muscles strained as pushed himself up from the ground where the bull now lay. Its enormous chest slowly rose and fell.

Alive.

“Phew.”

It presented him with a new problem, however. How could he move such a massive creature?

The bull lets out a muffled snort.

“What?” the man looks around in confusion, hearing a voice. “Who said that”?”

Its chest continuing to heave, the bull’s breath is heavy and audible.

“Wait…” he follows the noise to its source. Astonished, he looks upon the bull. “You’re…”

Another struggling snort.

“You’re… you’re like him,” the man stutters as he kneels beside the The Pearl-Coloured Bull.

An exhausted attempt at a bleat follows.

“What does that mean?” he asks. “Do you know where he is?”

A snort once more.

“Then tell me!” he implores.

With all its energy, The Pearl-Coloured Bull finally musters a ”moo!”

~~~~~

And so he does.

---

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7C: The Seventh Labour

“Brother…” the King of Lightning turns to where the Sea God sits. “What is it that we witnessed?”

“Something has changed within the bull,” Poseidon replies.

“Only now you realise that?” the Moon of the Nile jabs at the Sea Lord. “I think it’s time we all spoke openly of our foe.

Let’s discuss the Minotaur.”

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7D: Affirmation

“Defending against John fucking Black. Yeah, that’s one way to redefine a division.

Whoops! Wrong opponent. There I go looking through Atara again. See-Through Atty. Invisible-Woman Atty.

But hey, if Chris Page wants to live in a fucking comic world - and please recognise that I did not say ‘book’ - I’m not going to stop him. Some people just need an escape from the lunacy of their everyday lives. The dude flip-flops in the same damn speech on whether BOB is the hottest commodity around, or he is. It’s always a team mentality until it comes to him looking like a bitch. That’s what you got yourself into, Atty.

#LEAVEBOB.

I’ll just be sitting over here, with the championship Chris is too much of a chicken-shit to try come claim, winning the War Games that he was too much of a chicken-shit to enter, and giving Drewski some hints at the angles he should run, because fuck knows that idiot is going to need them. I’ll give Chris that much credit, and Drew that little. At least he makes a mean kale smoothie though, so he’s got something going for him. Tell you what though, Chris… when you’re done in the kiddy’s pool, come meet me at the top of the highest fucking diving board. If your old ass can still climb the ladder that is.

Listening to Chris just shows how freaking delusional B.O.B. are though. I don’t hate them for it, I almost pity them actually. Their leader - assumed as much no matter what they say by the way that dumb cunt Fury somhow attributes her B.O.B.-only team to him, and by his inclination to always make everything about himself - seems to think that after getting fucking whacked by that bigger-cunt-but-not-as-dumb Lycana, he’s somehow the hottest thing going? As much as it makes me want to shove a goddamn ice pick into my face, that role absolutely goes to Lycana - hence her being named as such for this month. And in second… well… this is the sad part. Second place is in his own fucking group and he can’t even give that credit where it’s due.

Overlooked Atty.

#LEAVEBOB.

Fuck it, right? Divine Atty didn’t show up for work, so why not stick my little pecker into some of these holes in logic instead, right? But at least, after this weekend, she’ll be overlooked no more. Atty gets her shot and all momentum that she has goes right out the fucking window. Atty Three Belts has already gone back to being Atty Two, hasn’t it? I’m about to make it ‘Atty Who?’

Jesus ass-eating Christ, how did we come to this? How did it come to me taking every chance I can to make a fucking mockery of you? I was looking forward to this, and you’ve just left me hanging over here. Still, it’s given me a bit of a chance to reflect on a few things. So strap yourself in, I’m going introspective with this shit. Again.

Someone like Jim Caedus, now that’s who to expect some verbal diarrhea from. Sorry for referring to your Twitter again, Dove, but to be fair, it’s all you’re giving me. But to be… to be put in that kind of category though, it makes me think… what did I do differently this time? What did I do wrong? Have I always talked this much shit? Probably, right? But it did start to feel different. I think I reacted… harshly. Harsher than I expected anyway, and that’s what I’ve been mulling over. What is it that caused me to get my back up so much? Honestly, it made me start feeling like I tapped into a part of me that used to exist. Before… well… you know.

So I got to wondering, could this be what I’m actually here for? I keep thinking that the answers are going to come, but what if this is the answer? What if this is what I’m supposed to do, and with every passing week I get further and further embedded into this world. What if… at the end of the day… I’m just a wrestler.

Just Like You.

Repeat.

Repeated repeat.

Repeated repetition of a repeat.

Broken.

Fuck.

Broken record or broken brain? Maybe both.

I mentioned the other day about how the ending to all this could just wind up being a giant let-down for anybody who has gotten invested in it. And if this is the end? Well… that’d fit the bill, if you ask me. Just a let down; a disappointment. See, my drive for something other has been what’s defined me. If I was just the same as everyone else… I…

Fuck.

Repeat.

HA!

That’s the risk when you get into this position, isn’t it?

Not that you’d know.

You risk becoming stale, overexposed, predictable even.

You do know all about that.

So is that me? Am I just a hackneyed waste of time? You’d probably say yes, but you’re not exactly unbiased right now, are you? But all this… this is the business side of the… err… business. This is the critique that Chris Chaos threw at me - he called me a fucking gimmick. But I… I showed him. Fuck it, I showed them all. That should piss you off, Atty. You’re a real wrestler, pankration-trained. I’m just some bum that came off the street who somehow knew how to throw hands without any real training. I’m… limited. Nobody’s going to praise me for my crisp suplexes or my smooth transitions. I’m not exactly what you’d call technically sound. As much as I feel like I’m starting to lean into this whole thing, this… this still isn’t me. I was right with what I told Chris. I’m not a wrestler. I’m a fighter. Fuck your gimmicks. Fuck your business too. I’ll tank this whole fucking place if I have to.

For control.

Yeah… that’s it. That’s what it was that got me hot. You wanted to take away my control. And I…

Heh… you know how this goes.

I won’t let you.

I didn’t ask for this! I didn’t ask for you. No, you fucking did this, Atty. You came into my world and threatened to rip everything away! You want to take away my control, my free will! You shouldn’t have done that! That… that’s what led me to fighting The Left Hand. It didn’t exactly go smoothly, but when the smoke had settled, who was left standing? Me? Or them? That’s what I thought.

Morbid Angel tried too. For both of our sakes at War Games, I hope he’s learned his lesson by now. Even Louis tried. Same fate. This really doesn’t bode well for you now, does it? Lycana fooled me once. Or, I should say, I fooled myself. I focused on what I wanted to do to her, instead of why I’m here. It’s not happening again. I’m here to fight. I’m here to survive. And you’re damn fucking right if you think this is the same old shit! It’s what separates me from the rest. It’s what pushes me to the edge of everything.

Somewhat ironically, it’s what makes me different

I know why I do this, Atty. I know why I got so mad at you. I’ve lost everything before, so the moment that you tried to take it all again, I knew what I had to do. As far as I’m concerned...

You. Deserve. This.

You deserve everything that’s coming your way.

I kept trying to tell myself that none of this was personal, but the very reason why I felt like I needed to say that was because I could feel the direction I was going in. But now… now I know. Now it’s clear. Of course it’s personal. It always is with me. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t.

So, bring whatever divine intervention you can muster. Say your fucking prayers.

I’m here saying ‘Fuck your Gods.’

I’ll eat them too.”

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7E: The Godmoot VIII

“Brother…” the King of Lightning turns to where the Sea God sits. Apollo’s light catches in the fragments of coral, gold, and pearl embossed within the marble. Its streaks of white and a greyish-green swoop down the arms and into the bodies of monstrous sea beasts. After the Highfather himself, it is the next-largest throne within the palace, even larger than that of the Mother’s. Zeus may be King, and they may squabble as brothers are wont to do, but he still respects the trident-wielder and expects all others too as well. “What is it that we witnessed?”

“Something has changed within the bull,” Poseidon replies. A white bull had been gifted to the king as a sign of his right to rule, with the expectation that it be sacrificed in honour of the Sea. The king’s ego had precluded him from doing so, and thus the Ocean Lord arranged for the king’s wife to be fed with lust for it, birthing an abomination, and then feeding the bull itself with his own rage. As the bull ransacked the island, it had been as though the fury of the largest waves had been unleashed. But this… somehow this had been a different bull. Through hidden means it had found a way to speak to the mortal. It had even found a name of it’s own.

“Only now you realise that?” the Moon of the Nile jabs at the Sea King, disrupting the thought. Though the Highfather may have intended for the appearance of the Seafather to be above all others in the court (and once this may have been the case), Horus since had taken on the mantle of skyfather himself. This drenched sea dog was no equal to him. “I think it’s time we all spoke openly of our foe. Let’s discuss the Minotaur.”

“We don’t know that’s what this is,” Zeus says.

“We may not. But don’t you?” asks the Lunar Falcon. “Tinged as it may be by our Monotheistic brethren’s image of evil, Is the appearance of this mystery not drawn from the tales of your own? What fate fell the damned son of Pasiphaë?”

“Murdered,” Poseidon says. “At the hands of Theseus. Or alive, in the labyrinth. It depends on the sea of time.”

“If he is dead, where does his soul reside? Has he crossed your river Styx?” Horus spins and faces the rest of the gods. “For that matter, does he dwell in any of your lands of the dead? Or does he work to unravel our very being, while we sit and point fingers at each other?”

“An interesting turn of phrase,” the Highfather says from the skies, “from one who seems to be trying to point the finger at this very moment. Yet again, you suspect us of treachery. But, at your own admission, you have no explanation for your Sun’s own actions. It seems as though we all have questions that could be asked of us.”

“Is that not why we are gathered here?” interjects the Skymother of Japan. “Is that not the purpose of a trial? To determine guilt and innocence?”

“Amaterasu, you talk as though we are the ones on trial,” Baldr says, offering thoughts from Asgard.

“Maybe we are…” Zeus muses. He glances at his wife, who remains solemn and inanimate.

“The next trial begins.”

~~~~~

“There are billions of stars in the galaxy.
Are you looking at the right one?”

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7F: The Mares of Diomedes





He finds himself in far lands again. Further and further from home this journey takes him. Adrift.


Trying to find direction.

The tide washes him towards Thrace, but upon the oaken dock, no king awaits him. Not this time. He jumps from the gunwale and the timber creaks in a familiar groan under his feet. Small waves lap at the supportive framework underneath, and the man quickly scurries - alone - to solid land. Away from the sea that could snuff his flame.

For the most part, it was an uneventful trek from the shores of the Black Sea up to the keep of the Thracian ruler. The only thing out of place that the traveller noted were the leering eyes peeking out of the windows of clay houses. He knew why they were watching him. By now, word of his travels had no doubt reached the kingdom and its ruler. The people of this land knew what that meant, for their warlord did not treat strangers with kindness.

He paid them no mind, and continued his journey.

~~~~~

The king’s court was empty when he entered. Had he not heard of the king’s reputation, he may be quick to dismiss the desertion as merely an oddity. But he was aware of the king’s predilections. And he knew there was something else afoot.

KKKKKRRRRRRRKKKKK-CLANK!

A solid sheet of metal drops from the gatehouse behind him, slamming onto the stony ground. He jerked to its sound.

Trapped.

“Well, well, well… what the fuck do we have here?” That voice… it doesn’t belong. The man spins again to face it and is confronted by a barrel-chested man with a head of dark, curled hair and an equally dark beard. “Looks like a little bitch in need of a good fucking. Well get wet ho, ‘cause daddy’s about to dick down.”

“You’re not the king,” the man says. The physical description fits. This stranger fits the savage description of the stories he had heard, but… that voice, that tone. He doesn’t even understand half of the words being said.

“Maybe you’re right,” he shrugs. “In these parts I’m more of a fucking god.”

That much might be true. The king was allegedly fathered by the personification of War himself.

~~~~~

And Ares watched upon brass shaped into skulls.

~~~~~


~~~~~

The king cast his robe to the side. The man did the same.

They wrestled.

It was a long and gruelling battle, full of headlocks and hammerlocks; hip tosses and arm drags; left punches and right punches; high spots and rest holds; Foot DDTs and Fatalities. And then of course… Dick Twists.






Ultimately, only one would prevail.

Only one was ever going to.

The king collapsed to the ground, exhausted. The man hogtied his hands and legs behind his back, picked him up over his shoulder, and followed the smell to the stables. You see… the smell of defecation is particularly noticeable when the animal has feasted on human flesh.

~~~~~


The four mares were chained with iron to a long bronze manger: Podsiris the swift; Lamtara the shining; Xanthemis the yellow; and Denius (just Denius… the terrible.

“Let me go you fucking cunt!” the king yells at the sight of the horses. He struggles in his bindings, but there’s no way free. “Oh, I know what this is. You’re out for the thunder, right? You want to get your little fucking pecker knuckle deep in this asshole? Fucking perv.”

The man doesn’t speak. Instead, he just tosses the tied king into the dirt. The horses neigh. They pull away from their trough in the king’s direction, tugging on their chains. With clopping hooves they step towards him, but the chains keep them from reaching all the way. Chomping bits signal terror in the king’s eyes, though he tries not to show it.

“You’re fucking bluffing,” he says to the man.

The man looks into the king’s eyes. And he kicks him in the fucking nuts. His body slides across the ground. Right towards the horses.

In a ravenous frenzy they devour him. Knuckles and all.

With their man-flesh consumed, the mares instantly calm. The mortal approaches. The beautiful, shining, man-eating Lamtara lures him in. She seems less interested in him than he is in her. Still, she lets him stroke her face.

~~~~~

He rode Lamtara bareback. No protection.


In full-flight, the other mares huddle close enough that they could smell his musk. His body erect, he bounces atop her; up and down, up and down. Stiffly weaving around rocky crags and cliffs; in and out, in and out. As they ride, he thumbs the mysterious pearl. The rhythm is intoxicating. Up the hill they go. To the peak.

They peak.

Together.

At the top of the mountain.

Olympus.

He brings the horses to the gate.

Though the mares’ had for a time been sated by the false king, they were beginning to grow hungry again.

He climbs off his high horse.

And lets them loose.

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7G: The Eighth Labour

Madness!


Man-eating mares hungered for more. They hungered for the flesh of the Gods.

~~~~~

You control your destiny.

~~~~~

The gathered host sprung into action. There were hundreds upon the hill, yet still… there were casualties.

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7H: Visionary

Zipping up his fly, he flushed the toilet and washed his hands. Splashing water on his face, he looks into the mirror.

He sees what he’s always seen.





But hears the new.


The fear grips him, but also… excites him.