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[alkidemos]

starters: 1 / 10 replies: 7 / 35 character development: 2 / 20 +10 from other characters = 30 task: 0 / 0

total: 75

[alkidemos]

status: @ofachilleus​ location: the beaches of gytheion

dawn paints a pretty picture across the seas. the oranges and the blues mix together into a particular sort of serenity; the sun begins its travel across the horizon and colors the beach golden. athena breathes in the winds, the sharp scent of sea-salt. she sits on top of a rock, half-boulder; an olive tree has grown next to her, and she thinks of oil, of flesh, of victory. achilles swings his sword at an invisible opponent not far from her; the winds catch at his curls, the fresh air and the first lights of day strengthen him. 

leader of the myrmidons. soldier of the mycenaeans. chaos trapped in a half-divine body. athena’s best chance of winning the crown that belongs to her.

she watches him, her presence unknown. he is strict with his movements, accurate with his slices. there is a refusal to the anger that brews behind the surface. he is a curious case; transgression on legs, cultivated skill that overpowered the sun god. he has all the qualities athena has found in champions of a recent past--- but she has never found that same pull to him. not until now. 

she remains unseen, unnoticed. sand covers her feet, and she buries her hand in it, watches as drops fall, collecting at the surface. the wind carries her hair towards the east, and athena looks at achilles. a hero in making. 

she says, “achilles.” in a word there is power and history; in a name there is future and misery. his form is tainted with tragedy; she can tell the crimson-red threads of fate pulling at his ankles, his wrists. the fates will be cruel to achilles, same as they have been to her. “come. rest.” will he pray to her? like theseus did, before. like menelaus does, under her patronage. 

[alkidemos]

synoikismos‌:

with @alkidemos at the palaestra

clanging swords became the melody of the morning, metallic sounds evolving into a symphony of strength forged by steel. there are very many people that populate the palaestra who seem eager to put up a fight, make a name for themselves, mark their own status as first amongst the fray—all of them contributing to the mixture of sanguine veracity that inhabited the grounds and seemed endless in its hunger for blood and sweat. the renewed fervour is easily explainable: the results of the chariot race had made undeniable the reality that this whole thing is an actual competition, with palpable stakes that demands to make itself known. where once there was carefree abandon, almost reckless gestures that merely played at the act of combat, some were now visibly imbued with a thirst to fight on and fight harder. the first victory is but the beginning, and it’s clear that theseus cannot afford to rest on his laurels if he wants to keep challenging for helen’s hand.

yet as he descends towards the common ground of the palaestra, there seems to be a holied hush descending on the crowd. at first, he thinks it is for himself, supposing that it is as if the others are giving him his due respect as victor of the first competition, but then he realises that the silence is instead for someone else. he turns and—

he feels her first rather than sees her, that weaver-warrior goddess who would make herself queen of the world. 

(  he feels, too, as if caught on a knife’s edge of destiny: some kind of reckoning shall pass.  )

❛  patroness,  ❜  he calls, deigning still to deem himself dignified enough for such an action, as if he is no longer anathema, as if he is already absolved.   ❛  are you not pleased by the victory of one from your sainted city ?  ❜

heroes are of glory ---their blood is made of the same thread that runs through athena’s veins, of victory and skill, destined for greatness--- but in more ways than one, they are burdens. from incessant cries and requests of blessings, to transgressions that are expected to be forgiven due to their heroism, to acts of foolishness that have put athena in compromising situations with other gods and goddesses. heroes are easy to sing of, once their journeys have ended and their tasks and challenges have been completed. they are impossible to forgive when they cross boundaries that are never meant to be thought of. 

athena rages at the thought of theseus.

she had loved him, once--- the way she had loved hercules, jason, perseus. she had loved him as patron goddess of heroes and athens. his blood ran with hers; his life was intertwined with hers; his future had weaved into hers--- but mortal men were more disappointment than kin. like jason had betrayed medea, like perseus had tricked medusa, theseus had proven to be a wound. a non-stop bleeding that came from cruelty, from dishonor, from transgression. athena had loved him, once; had given and given and given, and he had taken, taken, taken, until he took too much at once. 

ariadne’s corpse floats in the depths of athena’s mind, a girl corrupted, a lover butchered.

when a mortal wants more than he can be given, athena offers them to the kingdom of hades. she does not trust bodies of ambition with no purpose other than glory--- she could have helped him grasp victory from a sacred tree, watch as he bit into it and devoured it whole. he had resolved in tearing ariadne’s lungs apart; paid the price of glory with gore. and now he dares, once more, to take helen’s hand. no proper patroness -- no lover -- can watch, helpless,  from above. 

she comes to him as rage, carnivorous.

“you dare to ask for my congratulations? do not attempt to fool me, εξορία.” athena’s word is thunder in shorter syllables. “you are no longer my kin.” and if she could have wrecked his ships and let the oceans swallow him whole, she would have. poseidon’s territory is cruel to her first, to mortals second. when she wills the fighters to forget her presence, the sounds of battle practice continue. athena looks at theseus, and thinks of athens. her beloved city. thinks of its future, its heritage, theseus’ cruelty. he seeks victory, and he is good at it. when he wants to win, he wins; it is no surprise, he is of her blood, her thirst. ariadne’s cries to her ring in her head, and the corpse floats, floats, sinks.

“i am patron goddess of heroes, not traitors.” it takes her a moment to recollect herself. she could have tamed his ambition, but he set it wild. “i am here as warning, εξορία. not as your protector. leave this city. beg for forgiveness. pray to whoever listens to you that i do not sentence you to an eternity of pain once i am queen.” 

[alkidemos]

kidemxnas·:

Since landing on Greek shores, her opponents had all been soldiers. Cocksure, ignorant of her kind, of the upbringing that outstripped them utterly. They fought with sword and shield, but lead with brutality. Fear tactics may work on the battlefield, surrounded by throngs of your kin, but against an amazonian queen, it was scarcely a distraction. 

What a pleasure it was to fight an educated opponent. From facing the first strike, she recognised skill. There was strength in the push back against her parry, uncommon agility in the next swipe, a counter against her own. Penthesilea’s marching pace of blow after blow is met and matched.

One swipe melts in to the next jab, crosses in to a block with the length of her glaive. An action takes only half a second of animal thought

A sweat crops to her brow. An opportunity arises amid a flurry of blows, one she takes eagerly. The glaive swings upwards, parrying away her opponent’s blow before driving down, leather covered point cutting through air toward her side. 

athena bottles the moment for the future; recollection of battle memories that please her, give her a sense of satisfaction. not many can impress the goddess of war; the last one to do so had been hercules, on the quest for greatness, a hero renowned. now the rhapsoidoi sing of the queen of the amazons, her skill and her stature. athena listens to the screeching of their swords, the swishing of the air--- she had been play-fighting for so long, she’d forgotten the wonder of battle.

yet even demigods make mistakes. penthesilea does not underestimate her, no; but athena has held a sword in her hand for so long that she knows all the scriptures by now. her strategy never relies on overpowering her opponent--- no, she finds that sort of fighting distasteful, remembers attempts at making her cower and submit with the force of muscle against steel, feels bitter resistance inside her mouth, and with a quick movement of her xiphos, she takes advantage of penthesilea’s position--- the glaive is on the ground, and the tip of athena’s sword finds itself situated under the amazon queen’s chin.

“tell me, queen,” the goddess says, “where does your allegiance lie? with your father, or your people?”

[alkidemos]

repulson·:

cheery with his ego-fueled disposition menelaus was not prepared for what was about to step forward. she catches him off guard, that is for sure - as his entire body surges backwards onto the heels of his shoes. he wobbles, off-point, and is flushed with embarrassment as the other forces him to yield. 

it was strange that he felt little shame in his defeat. 

for it was a wonder to watch them work, how they carved the sky with a sword and danced with light-feet. it was an odd reaction for a man who often found envy in the smallest of ordeals. 

raising his sword in defence the prince of mycenae meets the other’s eye. 

a demi-god? a hero-in-training? whatever they may be, they would make a good warrior for agamemnon. 

“hold yourself back? why, i would never ask you to do so! nor any other! but what i must ask is this, do you intend to fight for helen’s hand? perhaps we can strike a deal, after all, it is clear that you nurture for-thinking and strength i do not wield.” 

athena’s laughter echoes in the little arena they have for themselves. i would if i could, a thought passes in a bare, honest moment. mortality is death, but it is also pleasure. it is fight, sweat, blood, a crown for a queen. she shakes her head, the laughter lingering on her lips; corrects her stance, circles menelaus.

“your mouth is full of flattery, little prince.” she says. she is amused; it is difficult for a man to amuse her. “fortunately for you, i am not competition.” i am your ally. it sounds foolish, almost, to her ears--- to have sided with the mycenaeans. but once a side is chosen, once she has committed to agamemnon’s brutality and menelaus’ youth, there is no going back. so she will teach, she will guide, she will offer her wisdom. 

“your unpredictability in a fight is a useful tool,” athena offers, as she strikes at him. he catches her sword with his, and she speaks, closer now: “but it is a tool that must be sharpened.” in a moment, she half-twirls around him, putting her heel forward against his ankle, but holding him before he falls. “keep your feet grounded, if you wish to be light, but not vulnerable.” she offers him her hand, pulling him back up--- “and do not trust your opponent.” she proves her point by turning him with the hand she’s grabbed, pressing her sword against his throat. “unless she is sworn to protect your people.”

in a show of trust, she drops her sword, and moves away slightly, giving him space. “my expectations are high, son of atreus.” her feet are light on the sand, as she circles around him once again; slower, heavier. she looks at the sky, then back at her companion. “i only accept victory from my soldiers.” she collects her arms behind her back, hands clasped. “but for now, you shall have my counsel.”

[alkidemos]

athena & theseus.

sunlight to the river, moonlight to the sea, as false and as fleeting thou hast been to me. soft breezes! waft him not across the wide wide sea; ingulph, just waves of ocean! the wretch who flies from me.

[alkidemos]

darknessbloomed·:

❛ I have visited both, ❜ there is a mirroring smile on her lips, dry amusement mixed with a sort of innate peace, ❛ And they are both interesting, the locations in and of itself, and there have been a few people of interest. ❜ Persephone offers a gentle laugh, the sound a light harmony in and of its own, dangling on the precipice between music and noise,  ❛ These are indeed lovely gardens, but they do lack a little. ❜

❛ Oh, you flatter me, ❜ her smile remains,  ❛ Although considering how almost ostentatious these festivities and events organized by Tyndareus have been, perhaps he would be annoyed at the thought of gardens of jewels. ❜ The ones in the Underworld were a thing of beauty  — not alive, but still brilliantly fixed in rich colours, but more than anything, they are a symbol of emotion, of affection. These gardens, they are lovely, but they lack the same feeling — greed and hunger seeps into the stones, poisoning the plants, pulling them faster towards the sun as surely as it drags them back. No, this is no garden made of love — this is one designed to impress and awe with no heart put into it at all.

❛ It is quite dear to your heart, but then again, things that share your name often do, do they not ? ❜ Persephone lends her name to death, until one means the other, (death is certainly represented by her, but she does not represent death entirely, and therein lies the difference, a difference that many struggle to grasp.) ❛ As it rightly ought to. ❜ Athena loves Athens, perhaps love is not an adequate word, just the same as Persephone does the Underworld — no, it is not love. More akin to the feeling of when your roots are so deeply entangled with the roots of a place that you cannot ever hope to extricate yourself, nor do you ever wish to — an endless entanglement, an endless adoration.  

❛ Better than in the realm below, ❜ her expression is wry,  ❛ But not quite as well as other lands. ❜ Oh no, there is too much poison here for anything to grow well apart from those that clung to the promise of ruin like dying men scrabbled and grasped for air.  ❛ I attempt to ameliorate it a little — for all the grandiose affairs he has put on, Tyndareus does not seem to be particularly inspired when it comes to greenery. ❜ Persephone makes a vague gesture with her hands,  ❛ Although perhaps if there is something you like, I can certainly make it bloom. Shall I weave a crown of flowers for you with them ? ❜ Or have you forgotten the tangled weavings of our girlhood days, and have instead turned your eyes upon higher crowns ? 

athena considers the bodies that persephone would name persons of interest--- gardeners? those playing with the edge of death, of life? or does she find curiosity in demonstrations of simple mortality, as well? she knows hades has sided with hera--- the bond of the old gods is as unbreakable as it is foolish. hades should have taken hera as his bride, instead. athena thinks. persephone and the king of the underworld are balancing acts; hera would suit death, its cruelty and inevitability. her thoughts remain voiceless as she listens to persephone, keeping her truths to herself.

“it is no flattery when it is fact.” athena offers, eyebrows raised. gardens and flowers and pretty things--- she has stayed away far too long from persephone; she slowly remembers the rhetoric of it, death and growth combined. theirs was a girlhood spent together, and it exists in a trapped time, a trapped space. when persephone fell down until there was no ground no more, athena had been lost; burning forests and making the earth tremble in her rage. “i doubt tyndareus knows the worth of a well-kept garden.” she adds humor, familiarity to her voice. it is half a farce--- there is a past lingering on her lips in the shape of a smile, but all athena sees when she looks at the queen of the underworld is business.

there had been a certain calamity to their girlhood--- it was chaos and beauty intertwined into something incomprehensible; now there is serenity in their company, with something venomous lingering in the pauses between their sentences. athena enjoys persephone’s conversation, but she wouldn’t consider her under a sentimental fashion. there is vulnerability in sentiment. it is reserved only for those few athena has collected in her heart. there is not much room for a silly past in there. 

“indeed,” she replies. it is a challenge to keep her thoughts in sparta and not in athens. “especially if you’ve earned it.” there had only been poseidon, then. his cruelty and savagery, his water overflowing. zeus had watched from far away, brother and daughter head to head, competing for the most glorious city the world had ever won. labor increases value; athena had pressed her fingertips to the ground and given the people life, given them growth. persephone would have enjoyed that scene, she thinks, perhaps as much as i enjoyed the expression on poseidon’s face. 

“you should visit the gardens of athens sometime.” it is an offering --- an olive branch, if you will --- as athena relaxes her shoulders, her stance. persephone is not particularly conniving, when it comes to war, but she is not foolish. war is not always won with a silver tongue and a shield. sometimes it necessitates trust, flowers, and reminders of childhood. “they are much more inspired than this, of course.” her face warms under her smile, “the athenians have a small temple made for you, as well. i believe they would be grateful for a visit, or a blessing.” 

she breathes in the smell of wildflowers, the scent of a past. persephone will gift her a reminder that will not matter after this moment of nostalgia. it is sacred, what they are sharing. but it is fickle, fleeting in the face of the future. but athena will honor it. “you always made the best crowns.” but not the ones i am after. “how can i say no to one? you know my favorites are yarrows.”

[alkidemos]

hera & athena.

my mother’s love is choking me - lorde, the love club / mother, make me, make me a big grey cloud, so i can rain on you things i can't say out loud - florence + the machine, mother / it looks ugly but it's clean, oh mama, don't fuss over me - hozier, cherry wine

[alkidemos]

prphcies·:

her face remains hidden as long curls of onyx conceal her features. her fingers intertwined in prayer she calls for apollo or any other deity that may hear her cry. who would answer, after all? would apollo take on alternative vessels just to play with her mind? would another come to her aid? aphrodite? surely not. hera? she doubted it. 

with her hair obscuring the view of any mortal eye she hears the voice of another. apollo? are you playing tricks?

her fingers grasp with tighter intent, her eyes squeezed closed as she feels some divine entity approach ( her ears too, joining in, as they prick to hear the undertones of the goddess ). 

tears dare to swell, her cheeks warm with humility as she keeps her head down. “i am a priestess of apollo, oh divine one,” she answers, honesty balanced upon her tongue as she slowly lifts her head to reveal olive skin and dark, tortured eyes. 

would apollo take pity? would he save hector?  he had cursed her.

hector’s worn body dragged by a faceless chariot.  the crumbling of troy’s walls.  athena’s face looking down whilst cassandra cries her name. 

heartache tortures her, and yet the priestess strives to serve whoever came to her in visions of voice and flesh. “apollo is a wise deity, that is for sure. but i do not see him working to safe or help my family… i see him only as one who may bring forward my demise…” 

so she knows she is cursed. some oracles think themselves blessed--- visions of blood and terror come to them as gifts, as turning points. in royalty, they are but a cage. the name of troy mustn’t be tarnished with a princess that cries blood and vomits doom. 

cassandra knows she is cursed--- apollo’s charms only work so far. athena imagines her pain, visions made physical in her body, future trapped in a girl. her tongue evades transgression, afraid of the wrath of a sun-god that disposes of followers with the turn of day. athena pities her. 

“and that is your only concern? to give your family safety?” athena knows the answer, but she also wants to dig deeper into a woman so deprived of her freedom that she has become a pawn. a pretty, delicate pawn. athena does not feel sorry to think she might be useful to her.

athena sits across cassandra’s weakened body. she looks at her, curious, impatient. finds potential in her, not as a blank slate, but as a tool.

“you know me as γλαυκῶπις, mortal.” her voice is calm. it promises the future. “and you know me as weaver.” she will gift cassandra a thread. it will be beautiful, and it will remind her of a goddess that might save her family. “perhaps you might know me as savior.”

troy is a good city. athena finds priam’s rule respectable, hector an excellent fighter, andromache a heroine. yet troy cannot be hers, unless the family turns against the outsider. “you know of paris’ curse.” a pause, and athena continues. “you know the destruction of your family comes with him, his blood.” athena looks at the sky, the stars--- thinks of her own curse, of her own future. “are you willing to change your family’s fate? or will you submit to the sisters, like your patron god orders you to?”

[alkidemos]

queenolympian·:

It takes more than barbs about a husband and a title to truly wound the Queen of Olympus, but on her daughter’s lips, they dig deeper, their brunt harder to bear. Her jaw tightens, steeled against it. A millennia, she’s had to practice stoicism. Her porcelain mask shall not crack now.

Too many times, has her title been used as an insult, a poison left lingering on the tongue. Too many times, she has stood by and let the world believe that swords and shields are the only way to fight a war. No more.

If Athena cannot see that every day in Olympus is a battle fought, she is even more lost than Hera imagined. She imagines herself fit to rule the kingdom of her youth, yet she imagines Olympus a kingdom of silk and wine, forgetting what royal frivolity seeks to hide, the ichor shed to make it so.

“You have spent too long among your mortal cities, daughter.” Every day at Olympus is a battle fought. She looked with pride, once, of the shining cities that called Athena patron, but even the of finest mortal cities were a single earthquake from turning to dust.

“Do not claim to understand what it is that I am accustomed to. Some battles are fought with finer instruments.” Her tongue is sharper than any blade a man could craft, her eyes harder than their steel. “If that is what you think of Olympus, Πρόμαχος,” Hera is not the only one whose epithets can be brandished against her. Athena is a general, thinking herself a queen. “You are even less suited to rule it than I thought.” The throne would eat you alive.

she will never forgive the fates for taking a mother of wisdom and giving her a mother of cunning. their threads run against the current that is athena; she challenges fate with the weavery of her own, but the sisters never listen. she will never forgive them for allowing hera to seep into her skin--- to let the queen leave a mother-shaped hole inside her chest when athena recognized the tyranny of her queendom, the arrogance of it. if aphrodite is the goddess of fools, hera is of vanity. it is a tragedy in waiting when a sovereign assumes their rule eternal.

when athena had left olympus, armed with a sword, a shield and a thread, she had sworn to gift freedom to the unsung heroes of greece--- ones challenged, cursed, bloodied by gods. mortals are but a part of the cities she admires; they are of the ground, the gods are of chaos. hera pretends she has mortality wrapped around her finger. athena wishes she had never returned, but the crown rests on undeserving shoulders.

“and you have forgotten of how fickle immortality is, Ἀλέξανδρος.” the women who worship hera do not know of her wrath. they do not know of how little she cares of their lives; how intangible they are to her. if marriage is war, then hera is merely a hoplite. a foot-soldier. athena will bear the name of general with pride--- a queen without a fight is only a tongue with a crown.

“and what is a finer instrument than the spear?” rage infects her voice. “is it a silver tongue? or is it a crown?” the thought of olympus, under the rule of hera and zeus, is repulsive. “how DARE you assume---” athena starts, and the men below them are startled as the ground shakes, the fury of a goddess trapped in an earthquake. she collects herself, the shaking stops. “do not make a fool of yourself.” she tells hera. “with your track record, years of unrest, destruction and petty fighting, you are not suited to judge qualities of leadership.” 

[alkidemos]

kidemxnas·:

Her head turns to watch her previous opponent. Breath regained, they huddle, shift on to their feet and depart, leaving a trail of muttered curses in their wake. The Amazon lingers long enough to watch them leave, the ghost a smile on her lips, before a new opponent takes their place. 

Will this one whine as much when they are bested? It seemed likely. They were too cocky, too sure of their own importance. It was curious. Greeks did not teach their women to fight. Nor did they teach them to be smug before victory was even assured. 

Instead of earning her ire, this only drew out her amusement. Penthesilea dipped low to the ground, retrieving her glaive from the sand. Keeping low, she palmed it with one hand, leather covered blade pointed ahead, as sharp as the eye that fixed Athena. 

“Come, then,” she urged with a beckon of her fingers. 

theirs is but a dance. penthesilea knows her weapon--- she is accustomed to it, bound to it only in a way a true warrior does. she moves with strength, an adaptive and quick mind, and attacks as if this is her destiny. athena hasn’t enjoyed a fight like this in a long time--- memories of champions and beloved heroes come to mind, and she finds herself grinning like a fool. happiness comes from a good, honest, smart battle.

the push and pull of their dance continues, athena at first on defensive. she feels the lack of her shield at her side, but in quick fights like this it is mostly a burden. the thrill of fighting flows through her veins, and her respect for the queen of the amazons only grows stronger. yet she has her place; athena has her own. one does not become goddess of war with no skill in sword-fighting. 

she disarms penthesilea, but not without any effort. it wouldn’t be worth her time if she hadn’t broken a sweat; she points her sword at penthesilea’s throat as her glaive drops, a smile on her face, then lowers her xiphos. “your reputation precedes you, daughter of ares.” she says, “but you are not lesser to it.” an overwhelming, fresh smell of olives and leather surrounds them. “you would have my favor if it hadn’t been for your father.”

[alkidemos]

starters: 3 / 30 replies: 5 / 25 character development: 1 / 10 task: 1 / 20

total: 85

[alkidemos]

ofartcmis·:

Shoulders roll into a shrug, promise & leniency both woven through the muscles. Her own fingers trail across the mortar, following the path Athena’s left embedded in the bricks, her steps lush over the other’s. Remnants of warmth, devotion ricochets back. An hour ago it would’ve held nothing for her, relinquished no vibrancy, but now they sing with the imperceptible. Even in vestiges, Athena is loud.

❛  Oh— I am perplexed ?  ❜  Laughter submerges, traded for a surprise so manicured it would seem genuine even to Athens’ actors. Its bubbles ghost on the surface of her face, in the skewed arc of her lips. ❛  I would’ve half-expected you to suggest sneaking into the competition, making a valiant go at Helen from first trial.  ❜

Overhead, the ledge of a counting-house casts a shadow between them. For a moment, Artemis catches their two silhouettes in double-sight, the gold & the dim, one in advance & one in retreat, a tide no less uniform for the way light refracts inside of it. She smiles, painfully bright, before she can stop herself. ❛  How would that suit Dite, with all the wagers she’s pulled out already— if we pluck the raffle prize ?  ❜

if it were another place, another city-state, another market, athena would’ve let her joy overflow-- but this is sparta. a city built in the name of war; she has quite the formal fondness towards these streets, these walls, but now it holds the bitterness of a competition that is entwined with her bones. when she visits cities like this, it is usually in the name of astonishment, of city-watch--- not for a crown of her own. artemis mentions the contest, and half the joy trapped in the athena-shaped bottle spills. athena collects herself before she turns to the goddess of the wilderness; her smile half-pretense. 

“such an easy way to infuriate aphrodite, is it not?” even the name sounds tiresome on her lips; if hera brings her rage, aphrodite brings her vexation. “let us not anger the goddess of fools so early. i would not want zeus to come berate us as if we are children.” athena does not want to see any of their faces, in any form--- zeus reminds her of tyranny, of the past covered in blood. she turns towards the market, and catches the sight of a blacksmith’s apprentice, in his little stall with well-crafted weaponry. amused, athena sends a quick blessing towards his way, and watches as soldiers start crowding the makeshift shop. she turns to artemis.

“there is no shame in watching, however.” it hadn’t been her intention to speak of business so soon; yet the competition seems the appropriate venue to speak to artemis about the crown. athena offers her arm to her companion in elegant fashion; she smiles, enchanting; nods towards the race. “shall we?”

[alkidemos]

antigone and my wall to close out my first week of university. i can’t wait to see the goldfinch in theatres!

[alkidemos]

GUEST CARD

— ✹ FULL NAME: athena / pallas / minerva / tritogenia — ✹ TITLE: goddess of wisdom and good counsel, war, the defence of towns, heroic endeavour, weaving, pottery and various other crafts — ✹ BIRTHPLACE: olympus — ✹ LAND / KINGDOM: olympus; athens her home; cities that worship her; streets & alleyways; workshops of craftsmen and women — ✹ AGE: immortal

AFFILIATIONS

— ✹ PARENTS: zeus & metis ( supposedly ) – themis & metis — ✹ SIBLINGS: clotho, lachesis & atropos – the three fates — ✹ LOVER(S): pallas, medusa, ariadne, andromeda, arachne — ✹ PROTEGE: penelope, odysseus

INSIGHT

— ✹ VICES: belligerence, dogmatism, self-righteousness, apathy, rancour — ✹ VIRTUES: dexterity, gallantry, prudence, diligence, sagacity — ✹ MORAL ALIGNMENT: lawful neutral — ✹ PERSONALITY TYPE: entj — ✹ MOST FORTUNATE MEMORY: they crown you with a city. from the ground comes life, and with life comes civilization, and an olive tree gives you a city. poseidon’s anger is but a laugh; your name is a city is a crown is a kingdom. the athenian people will know your kindness, your protection. they will make temples for you, build statues in your honor. you will give them trees crops fields you will give them life again and again. fortune? athens is yours. — ✹ AN  ACT THEY WOULD ERASE: the blade goes through her side so quickly, so efficiently– no skin no bones just blood, your father’s trickery across the arena; her body falls so gently in your arms, blood running out of her mouth– your voice gets stuck in your throat, half gasp half tragedy; she whispers your name as she dies, as her soul falls into the palm of hades’ hand– her blood remains on your sword, red and infinite– there is no cleansing of this. there is no going back no getting her back no pallas no pallas no pallas. — ✹ BELIEF ABOUT FATE: you don’t know it yet. they are your sisters. they laugh at the irony of the weaver being blind to her roots; they laugh at you for trying to persuade them into giving her back to you. in a thread lies your whole future— an immortality that continues in weavery, but known. you hate them, the fates. you will know, soon— you will hate them more. how dare you, you will scream, and they will laugh, weaving and weaving and weaving. fate does not care about a goddess. fate does not stop, not even for a sister.

RECOGNITION

— ✹ NOTABLE PHYSICAL TRAITS: no hair out of place, except in battle. a particular style of clothing that speaks command and power; going in between dresses and armor. unbelievably steady hands. hazel eyes, close to the color of olive greens. a tall frame, of muscular and lean build. calloused hands, a laughter rare but one that rings across cities. — ✹ NOTABLE QUIRKS, IDIOSYNCRACIES: grabbing at an invisible sword at times of pressure, of threat. ale over wine. weaving when stressed, using owls as messengers, an overwhelming silence. preferring left hand over right, watching plays disguised in crowds. the sharpest memory. an inclination to luxury, but the ability to go without it. — ✹ REPUTATION AMONG MORTALS: you’re the patron goddess of cities. of crafts and ingenuous designs, workshops and citadels. you’re the patron goddess of heroes; both infamous and unsung, taking a liking to heroic endeavor – especially those of women. you’re the patron goddess of justice. palace courts call for your wisdom; generals wish for your blessing; craftsmen pray to you before they raise their chisels. you will not let your name be tarnished by tyranny— you will be just, and you will give life. those that fear you are correct in their judgement. those that worship you, that pray to you, that regard your name in the respect it holds are many— and they deserve your protection, and you’re more than pleased to give. — ✹ REPUTATION AMONG GODS: hera’s little girl, the old gods would call you. you would erupt in a rage unknown to olympus’ goddesses; burn in your own fire to cleanse yourself of a makeshift mother’s sins. my mother is metis. it is difficult to gain respect as a new-born; but you came to chaos in full armor and girlhood trapped in a sword— they will know your justice. they were astonished with your birth; they will atone for their sins under reign. most know you as an astute commander; few know you as weaver; none know you as daughter of themis. everyone who isn’t us, you will say to artemis, sword glistening in the moonlight, is an enemy. and no enemy of mine shall live.

MUTUAL HEADCANON

sparta’s princess should be warrior first, woman second. not a prize to be won but rage trapped in a bottle.

athena will come to helen in a dream.

she has no patience for followers of aphrodite. their worship is fickle, their countenances mercurial. they are worse than apollo’s oracles, ares’ soldiers. but athena will come to helen in a dream, and she will grieve over the girl’s body, pliant and fragile. a queen must know how to defend herself, without a guard or a shield, without armor and fear. athena will come to helen in a dream.

she will not know her — athena shows her nature only to those deserving, to those devout — but she will feel her. athena’s power will ring all over helen’s body, her hands, her lips, her shoulders, her feet. she will paint her the picture of a beach; of a coast helen is familiar with. her name will be just out of reach— her tongue will chase after the syllables, but athena will keep them hidden in the palms of her hands. take this, she will say. hand helen a sword forgotten— one that belonged to her girlhood. i built cities with this sword. you will paint your queendom in red with it.

athena will come to helen in a dream. she will crown her a warrior-queen.

[alkidemos]

darknessbloomed·:

with athena , @alkidemos —— the rooftop gardens . 

The rooftop gardens are lovely enough, but they are still gardens sculpted by mortal hands and so they are also not quite up to her standards. For one thing, there is not nearly enough greenery, and the ones one display somewhat limited in their scope. It amuses her, that for all his attempts at lavish splendour, his garden is still lacking. And has she not been enjoying the ability to allow things to blossom once more ?

It does not take her very long. Secluded away in a corner (away from the innumerable numbers of people that seemed to have flooded the place,) seated on an artfully decorated bench, the ground beneath her sparks to life, verdant greenery rising from nowhere, snaking along the floor, until they tangled with the stones. The flowers are in full bloom (which ought to be impossible for this time of year,) and it is a little oasis of half-nature half-city, human architecture twined with the very roots from which the world grew. Lush, full of life, straining against the sun to grow just a little more.      

Her hand reaches out gently, curving the petals of an orchid under slim fingers, examining the minute details of the petals, dark magenta and indigo hues melding seamlessly together. ❛ Αθηνά, ❜ her smile is serene and inviting, a ship over calm waters, what reason does she have for unhappiness, for Athena too was like the sister she never had, a figure she looked up to as a voice of reason and logic, levelheaded and almost always a step ahead. ❛ I thought you might have been in the bibliothekai, I did not expect you here. How does this city compare to Athens ? ❜

the queen of the underworld is far too weaved into athena’s memories as the girl she once was for her to associate her with death, with rotting. her husband plays in the darkness of his throne down below. persephone reminds athena of flower-picking and growth.

before the goddess of spring enters into her sight, athena is watching the sky. she finds gentle comfort in mortal structures, in the craftsmanship. marble feels like silk under her fingers. she thinks of watching civilizations being built from the ground, of law and justice as they come with each brick, each stone, each block of marble. beginnings are her favourite. everything gets difficult in the in-betweens of stories; and endings only bring grief. athena’s tangled in the thread of the fates--- her story has not crescendoed, not yet. she misses the beginning. which is why she enjoys the company of persephone; she reminds her of watching roots grow. gentle insurrections of life. athena rises as the sound of her voice.

“Περσεφόνη,” she answers. there is a history to a name. athena gave hers to a city, persephone gave hers to death. “your assumptions are, for the most part, correct. the bibliothekai and the agora are indeed my favourite places of sparta, but this is a beautiful garden, is it not?” a smile sneaks up to her lips, finds itself hanging in mid-air. “but it cannot compare to those of yours.”

the mention of athens finds her trying to catch her breath--- she misses her lands. it is difficult to admit, especially since her attention calls to be drawn here. how to capture athens in mere words? even athena fails to find the correct letters to assemble. “it would be an unfair comparison,” she decides. “cities are my home--- but athens is sacred. it burns with civilization, with craft, with wisdom.” it is but a humble gesture of her favourite city. athena pushes at the pull of athenian soil and turns to present company, instead. “how does the growth fare in sparta? i have noticed your subtle additions to the wildlife. you must like the city to bear it such gifts.”

[alkidemos]

repulson·:

@alkidemos·

his choice of weapon had differed throughout the ages. as a boy he found a penchant for the bow and arrow; as a man, he favoured the sword with a golden hilt — molded by agamemnon’s worker’s hands; alchemy playing its own part to wish luck upon the holder’s soul. he slashed it this way and that, tearing into dummy made of straw and cotton — it would make little use as a manly figure, but yet sufficed to practice his wielding of such glorious weight. 

little did he know that someone greater, someone all the more abiding, lay in wait within the congregation. little did he know, that one of the divinities themselves had singled menelaus with the keen review of their eye. 

caught mid-swing, he heaves and puffs, his chest heavy with anticipation and fueled oxygen as he exhales with a gasp. the sword was mighty, and still, at the age of thirty, he had yet to grow to the capacity of his older brother — who shadowed menelaus in his entirety. 

one more swipe and menelaus falls back onto the halls of his feet, his sword resting by his side before blue eyes sweep the stalls for a reaction - or perhaps, a word of congratulations. “what do we think, audience of sparta!?” he calls, his arms raised as if he had already won the first round. “who will dare come forward and challenge me to helen’s hand?” 

it is difficult to paint a man into heroism if he is not born to it. if he is brutal with his sword rather than valiant--- if his intentions are crooked, dirtied by blood. if he is closer to savagery than gallantry; if his presence calls for blasphemy, his lineage for unfounded greed and cruelty.

athena watches the prince of mycenae put on a show.

he is not quite as impressive as his brother, whom athena’s strategy unfathomably depends heavily on--- there is more rage in his form than control. athena thinks of their city, statues built in her stature. there is decency in their worship, the mycenaean people. she cannot find much of it in their younger prince. 

but she must observe her champions--- she must know if they are worth rooting for. there is a brutal charm to him, she can admit. she has never found attempts at conquering the world with the hidden vitriol of a toothed smile tasteful, but menelaus has a certain pull to him, fit more for ares than her. it is a foolish attempt at heroism, and more a show of vanity. yet--- menelaus is young flesh. perhaps there is more in him to carve than in his brother.

she comes to him in human form, unrecognized. says, “what a show of unimaginable sinew,” her voice echoes. it is but a flick of her fingers to have the crowd feel strongly the urge to leave them by themselves; athena does not wish for attention for herself, and she does not wish for shame for the prince. “but surely, my prince, you will fare better against a more... lively opponent?” her feet drag the sand of the arena as she steps towards him, sword raised.

“think quick,” athena says, as she strikes him; in a movement and a movement alone, she has him disarmed. eyebrows raised, she challenges:

“or shall i hold myself back?”