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    Summary

    Zagreus stands in front of the lucky man whose company he has chosen to breach this fine evening. He’s dressed out of his impressive bronze and whitish-silvery armor tonight, which is now a sentinel on its mannequin at the edge of his tent. In its stead, he wears a simple crimson chiton such that could only be sourced from up top the mountain.

    Ares turns when he finally notices his visitor, lowering the parchment he had been reading until then. “My kin?” he inquires. It’s not fair, Zagreus thinks. War is brutal, war is horrible, and so many other things in-between! Yet the way he speaks, the language he uses, and how he stands like he’s in the greatest symposium on Olympus…

    Zagreus’ belt is the first to go, and he lets it fall to his feet with an ugly clack and rattle.

    Language:
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