Post by ARES on Dec 10, 2014 13:59:27 GMT -8
He was pacing around the halls of Olympus, in his own quarters, very much decorated in warrior-like fashion. There was much to be said about the God of War whenever he got this skittish. There was an air around him that seemed so thick that it could be cut with a knife, the expression on his handsome, yet hardened face, one of a man already planning the next moves. It was a truce, at that point, yes, but he could feel it, almost smell it in the air, that it would not remain so. He glanced briefly at the armor he usually carried on him, now sitting in display, together with the many swords and axes forged by the hands of his brother Hephaestus himself.
Eventually, Ares took his time to sit down, elbows placed on muscular thighs, his index touching his chin as he resisted the urge of simply teleporting out of the Olympus and seeing where he could unleash the tension. Aphrodite was not available, so he could not even turn to her for that, even though her attentions would have been much more pleasant than whatever he chose to do in the mortal world. But the God of War did not stall. He often came to his loyal followers, fought with them, trained them to eventually fight upon his command if needed. His sons, Phobos and Deimos, were also told to always remain on standby in case he needed to call for them. And then when time came, he would march to War, guiding all his followers in the intensity of battle as he had done before, several times before.
And that was still something he never forgot. Or forgave. Mortals had always been ungrateful, so he took great pleasure in brewing wars among them, not caring much whether he should or should not intervene. Had they not decided to disdain him for what he did, most of them, that is, he would have simply not meddled as much as he did. His faithful followers, those still loyal to him were obviously exempt from his disdain, but that was solely due to the fact that they did not turn their backs on him.
One day those fools would find out the sheer amount of strength he possessed. And then, he was sure they'd be back on their knees, worshipping him and asking him for Guidance if only just to save their lives. And a smirk appeared on his lips, because then, it would be his choice whether he listened or not.
Stepping out of his quarters, he stormed outside, and cared little whether others saw him. His mood was already soured and it would take just a little spark to ignite the powder keg.
Eventually, Ares took his time to sit down, elbows placed on muscular thighs, his index touching his chin as he resisted the urge of simply teleporting out of the Olympus and seeing where he could unleash the tension. Aphrodite was not available, so he could not even turn to her for that, even though her attentions would have been much more pleasant than whatever he chose to do in the mortal world. But the God of War did not stall. He often came to his loyal followers, fought with them, trained them to eventually fight upon his command if needed. His sons, Phobos and Deimos, were also told to always remain on standby in case he needed to call for them. And then when time came, he would march to War, guiding all his followers in the intensity of battle as he had done before, several times before.
And that was still something he never forgot. Or forgave. Mortals had always been ungrateful, so he took great pleasure in brewing wars among them, not caring much whether he should or should not intervene. Had they not decided to disdain him for what he did, most of them, that is, he would have simply not meddled as much as he did. His faithful followers, those still loyal to him were obviously exempt from his disdain, but that was solely due to the fact that they did not turn their backs on him.
One day those fools would find out the sheer amount of strength he possessed. And then, he was sure they'd be back on their knees, worshipping him and asking him for Guidance if only just to save their lives. And a smirk appeared on his lips, because then, it would be his choice whether he listened or not.
Stepping out of his quarters, he stormed outside, and cared little whether others saw him. His mood was already soured and it would take just a little spark to ignite the powder keg.
