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The familiar voice caught her a little off guard, though Pythia doesn't know exactly why. The tray of champagne flutes she carries, filled with a soft pink bubbly liquid trembles slightly, though she recovers quickly as she rounds to lay hues on her brother. Hues, that now hold an air or warmth that had otherwise disappeared eons ago. "Michael," A fleeting moment holds ire before its reasoning dissipates just as surely, "It's beautiful, isn't it?" Truly, Pythia doesn't remember the last time that she'd felt so, light - so, unburdened by the tribulations that had so quickly torn her apart and left her rampant for retribution. "Oh," it's something of a surprise, but again, she doesn't truly know why, "let me just..--" Perhaps there's some importance in the tray she carries, unwilling to simply set it down, Pythia isn't comfortable until another server accepts it from her. He wasn't wrong. How long had passed, since the hands of time set them on opposite sides, since they'd seen each other as brother and sister, instead of nothing more than an enemy. "For old times' sake."

@fxllenpythia location: the FUNCTION notes: a rare sentimental moment between these two

Wasted time. That's what all these years amounted to. Michael couldn't remember why he and Leviathan had fallen out, there was a time that they had been close: inseparable, even. They'd fought together for so long, served their father dutifully and faithfully but... For some reason Michael had let time and who knew what else come between him and so many of his other siblings. "Of all the things you and I shared, it's hard to believe that there are still firsts." This masquerade, the gala and all its eccentricities were so distinctly fey. The eladrins would throw their parties in Eden, but they were not for the seraphim to attend. "Dance with me? I feel like we have a lot of time to make up for."

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(…)you learned to love the absence of sound, absence of an aching voice rubbed raw, your world just a whisper, a holy name uttered before sleep and dreams of burning.

Vandana Khanna, from You Who Have Taken The Name Clare in “Train To Agra” (via bonequeen)

@arakhor

Pythia understood very well, that the greater number of Seraphim would undoubtedly take the chance to end her should the opportunity arise, she’d long since sought to take an ounce of it personally. However, something about the understanding spoken between them now made the hollow darkness in her chest ache. “It’s been a long time since we’ve held onto all that we deserve, Astaroth,” if there were another way, perhaps, she might have sought it out but the truth was, the human race had been allowed to run this realm into the ground for too long and by the time her invocation became rather permanent, far too much damage had been done. “Since anyone considered us worthy of even an ounce of what we were promised. I only seek to attain a sliver of that.” Albeit, her way came with the promise of casualties and more collateral damage than should ever have been necessary, if anyone could deliver on such a promise, it was undoubtedly Leviathan. “For our siblings.” A spark of nostalgia flickered in her eye. Although gone was the once compassionate seraphim, once full of passion and love, she would burn the skies down to return to them those they had lost; regardless of the cost. “Should you see the others,” their kind - the other fallen, siblings that she’d not fared too close to recently, uncertain as to whether their reparations of her would be as lightly given as his, “Give them my love.” Oh, the irony.

          Far closer in their efforts, he vied to believe it was an understatement, though Roth understood far too well the lengths Michael and Uriel would go to contain the siblings that they had deemed unruly. Serpents once ensnared this realm, sulfuric air and ash making it uninhabitable; he could attempt to relate to the idea that what was since created from such malice was worth saving, but Roth would not stoop to such merciful ideals. No matter how hard Uriel attempted to ally those who he’d once scorned, Roth would rather sit by with his pride intact than to allow themself to abandon their principles. Their wrath was what allowed them to quite literally jump from grace for the divine realm could no longer serve them if they were meant to bow to creatures weaker than they. Roth once figured it was that which unified he and Pythia, that they’d not belittle themselves for mortals, yet it was clear her time locked within the Inferno had morphed that ambition into something else entirely. “I hold the same sentiment for you, dear sister,” he didn’t pass off the promise with vague sarcasm or blase indifference, Roth made it perfectly clear that they would both accomplish what they must if it all boiled down to it. Ulthar had made blades and scribes, not a family, though Roth found amusement in her final sentiment, “I’d like to see you try.” Tacitly expressed care was there, embedded in scorn and bitterness, but the faint wisps of a smile allowed any insight to Roth’s emotions in this moment.

camilaqueiroz: ❤️‍🔥

@arakhor

Another triumph, underlying the return of the fellowship that had set out some time ago. Whispers had sought their way back to her on the wind, through the shadows and in the thick of each soul spilled to the book. Heroes that would stumble upon a broken crown and all the instability that would come with it. It spun its way through her entire being as an ultimate high, she almost missed it. A tremor that worked it's way into her fingertips and the promise of an oath not sworn in blood or souls, etched within the very celestial bones of what she'd once been, alerted her to something beyond the dissipating stretch of space between her and what she would bring upon this world. Her form filtered into a darkened mist, each speckle of darkness a black hole that emanated how rotten she was to the core, and when her hand slipped over his shoulder, the corporeal form following, she drew him into the heart of the otherworld. The chambers of the Asphodel and the Necronomicon echoing with centuries of silence and distance that never once left a mark upon what existed between them "I knew this lifetime would bring you back to me."

The rise of his voice - a moment of frustration and anger was one of the only flickers of conviction the Pythia had seen of Eric in some time now. Hollowed out by his own discomfort - his choice to stradle the line between this life and the next would be his downfall. Unable to choose until all that remained was the pitiful indecision to return to a world that had already cast him aside once. “You should have spent these months learning to secure your own fate instead of wallowing in self-pity, abhorrence or expecting someone else to do it for you.” A serpent’s hiss rounded out the snap of her own fangs, the glimmer of hues daring him to test another bark in her presence. Still, she softens - smiles, and shakes her head gently, “I never needed to make you a monster, Eric. You’ve been one since birth - and everyone, including your mother, knew it.” It’s flippant, haphazard, the way she speaks. As though every word she spoke were facts well known. “You were exiled long before the pack turned it’s back on you, and it seems you’re itching to experience that all over again.”

“If all you see here is destruction, you’ve not been looking hard enough.” The asphodel - the Necronomicon, was wrought with the creation of all things frowned upon. To stop death in its tracks, open realms beyond this one, and bring about a world that no longer saw those with such an affinity banished to barren lands. Eric had yet to see the totality of the destruction that she could wrought and as she wove the intricacies of power around her finger, the once regaled seraphim condemned the volatile to a life of bridled pain. A shortened life, beyond the safe haven of those willing to do anything - his body would seek to reject the hearts granting - long life, and strength beyond all else. Rue the control he sought being safe - the fire within him deserved so much more. The spark of a flame ignites and the blackened candles surrounding the room cast long shadows across the room. “Your troubles are your own, Eric. I offered you opportunity, and you squandered it. Perhaps the harbinger won’t mind another disappointment.”

A waste, became her most immediate thought. The more demons already among them, the less she would need to conjure for herself in time. From the moment Abel had first called to release his familiar, it had pulled idly at the hands of time and ideally, morphed itself into a small piece of a rather complicated puzzle she intended to pull together. That one of her brethren had called a blade against them well before she could hand over purpose was almost absurd to her. It meant they were looking far before Pythia had allowed herself known to Rome. “Do you know which Seraphim? What their vessel looked like?” I was a long shot, finding out who would strike against one of their demons while the city ran rampant with those far more capable. 

“A seraph blade can revert any creature to it’s simplest form.” It was the slightest explanation for what she now knew had happened. Whether he understood it or not - the fate of his familiar was not merely by chance. “Without tossing him back into the inferno, there is little more you can do to revert him to a demon state.” She states, rather coldly, though she finds no real reason to sugar coat the truth for him. “The magic and power that turned him in the first place has been bled back into the inferno itself, or - remains trapped within the blade and there is nothing that can be done.” The corner of her lip twitches, head canting far enough to the side to cast dark tresses beyond her shoulder, “However, there are other avenues, if one is so willing.”

fxllenpythia​:

As her name flit through the mind of another, Pythia cracked out the ache in her neck with a rather jarring twist of her jaw. All in a days work, she supposed as the pull towards the other became something ethereal. A plea more than anything, as were all those seeking her out so reverently. Nobody chose to walk the path towards her without wanting something dire - power, revenge; death. It bled from their every whim and just as she’d expected, the air was so thick with it, she could taste the sweetness in the air. “Then you’ve been missing out for your entire life, Abel.” Ire doesn’t beseech her in being summoned this time, there are some who call to her who are hardly worth the price of their own soul, and yet - she knows that this one will cater to the necronomicon and herself in time.  Laughter splits concerning lips and Pythia presses her shoulders into the wall she rests upon, drawing herself to full height as she picks at dust within the air, “I’d argue that you’ve needed my help for a very long time, yet you’ve never quite made it this far before, have you?” Always toeing the line so readily blurred by those of his kind. The destruction so often molded from the skeletal foundations of blood magic only satisfied by those who could talk their way out of it’s damnation. Confident steps drew her closer until she could draw the chair out opposite him, plopping herself into it like a child as she lent forward and placed her chin in her hands, the sickly scent of his blood permeating satisfaction within her. “Tell me everything and don’t leave out a single detail,” she paused, hues narrowing for a moment before a saccharine grin split her features, “I’ll know if you do.”

          Silas had imbued this innate understanding of blood magic into Abel, for him it was a taboo that was only called upon when absolutely necessary. He’d tinkered with it before, felt the dangers that lurked in the rare times he’d practiced it; an unyielding itch. When he’d first released Cain from the Inferno after he’d been banished he’d had to call upon to release him; Abel wondered now if the Pythia could recall that or if so many called upon her that they were bound to drown out the incessant pull to her power. What was once a well documented taboo had spiraled into power that many were blinded by, entrenched with this desire for infamy. He’d felt it’s pull the moment he utilized it to free Cain from Lucifer’s clutches, it was akin to a breath of fresh air, all the tension within shoulders released as he fueled the Pythia once more. Abel had abandoned the practice in his adolescence, though Cain whispered of the desire for them to obtain more power, Abel would never surrender to the thought of supplying the Pythia; yet here he was now, within their presence, begging for help.

“My familiar… he was turned human.” There was hardly much to tell, from Abel’s perspective, the experience was Cain’s outright. Abel’s gaze bore into the floorboards but he dared to look up at the Pythia, a greater demon, “A seraphim had managed to make it into our coven,” with half of their coven sequestered out of Rome, they were weakened and he was certain that was to blame for it’s ability to enter their home. “I don’t know what happened between them, but when I stumbled upon him he was a clean slate; human.” Cain had begged Abel to reverse it however possible and here he was, putting himself at the mercy of the Pythia, “Is there anything that can be done? Anything you can do?” The Pythia projected solutions onto people, though they meddled, they were never the executioner. If she could, however, allow him the power to reverse what Cain had endured, Abel would do it if it brought peace for Cain once more.

The hunger in her alone could swallow up every God, every woman, every man, every person, the whole universe.

Nikita Gill, from Great Goddesses: Life Lessons from Myths & Monsters (via heavensmark)

augustcavaliere​:

It was true that the further he sank, the more powerful he became, the more twisted the necromancer’s mind ended up being. The siren’s call of the dark arts had beckoned him for an age, each reincarnation under Thetis’ curse had brought him to this. In this life Eren had broken the spell but that it would be too late might as well have always been the druidic mother’s intention. Because for all the lives that August and Eren had lived together, the two of them had never been further apart, now they stood on opposite sides of the coming battle with an obvious end in sight. “Good,” the smirk that followed came across as unnatural, like a snake lifting its lips to try and grin, “I’m looking forward to it.” The drow. Annoying creatures but obviously necessary, the necromancer would have preferred to toil in his lab but if Pythia had a directive for him then he would see it through to completion. “Consider it done.” 

Obedient to a fault, August had never slipped in his plight to serve both her and the Necronomicon, and he’d serve the same punishment as all others. The prospect of losing a loved one, for good, was one she knew well. Eons had passed since the war of the Gods. To see her brethren struck down even then had been a blow - but what followed, in seeing them tear each other down, had left marks unseen upon Leviathan. “How did Eren take it?” One of the many she knew that adored the man, yet still sought to damn him for the life he wanted when the truth came to light. “I shouldn’t need to apologize for the cost we must pay for our plight” She sighs,” the cost of joining me alone drives away those that cannot handle all to come, but were I given the option, I’d have you know that with enough power, all things can be reversed. It’s merely a matter of how long you can be without until a suitable fix is found.”