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▬▬ι═══════ﺤ Starter for @knightshonour's 𝚁𝙾𝚆𝙰𝙽 !

⚔ ────▪ ❛ 𝙼𝙾𝚁𝚁𝙸𝚂𝙾𝙽 𝙳𝙸𝙳 𝙽𝙾𝚃 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳 𝚈𝙾𝚄. . . ❜

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻ The figure standing before Vergil stands exactly as tall as he, sending a wave of unease through his tired bones. And he can sense it, too, in the way the man drifts a 𝙳𝙸𝙵𝙵𝙴𝚁𝙴𝙽𝚃 kind of brimstone towards his own. His infernal blood surges, though from where the man is standing, all he can see is the glint of Vergil's 𝙻𝙰𝚅𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴𝚁 eyes staring him down, narrow slits that, for all appearances, seem human enough.                           He sits on the edge of his twin brother's writing desk in the dark, lean arms crossed over one another, a light vest of high-quality 𝙻𝙴𝙰𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁 covering his most intimate assets. He needs no more than that; and even then, the armor is only for appearances. No blade of the known world had ever come close to 𝙼𝙰𝚁𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶 it, and those that ever tried all ended in the same swift 𝚁𝚄𝙸𝙽.                           He regards the figure with 𝙲𝚄𝚁𝙸𝙾𝚂𝙸𝚃𝚈, too, though, tilting his head to the side, sizing the man up. Such a large and heavy blade... he wants to scoff in the darkness. His twin brother would have had a 𝙵𝙸𝙴𝙻𝙳 𝙳𝙰𝚈 with the man, but alas, Dante was not there, away on business all the way on another island. A day's trip at the least by ship, less by 𝚃𝙴𝙻𝙴𝙿𝙾𝚁𝚃𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽.                           With a flick of his fingers, a hundred intricate 𝙵𝙻𝙰𝙼𝙴𝚂 begin to ride from various candelabras, chandeliers, and lanterns around Devil May Cry, bathing both himself and the man in question in gentle, dim light. Each flicker casts across the intricate silver 𝙴𝙼𝙱𝚁𝙾𝙸𝙳𝙴𝚁𝚈 on Vergil's over coat, a well-worn duster made of velvet and silk; not a 𝙿𝙴𝙰𝚂𝙰𝙽𝚃'𝚂 wear, though the torn edges of his coat vents are mangled by battle and time. Even the creak of his 𝙻𝙴𝙰𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁 gloves and boots are marred with age. He does not seem to mind, lifting off the desk in full, 𝚂𝚃𝚁𝙰𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃 posture. He lowers his arms; in one hand, a 𝚂𝙷𝙸𝙼𝙼𝙴𝚁 of sparkling cerulean light beginning to glow.                           ❛ State your 𝙱𝚄𝚂𝙸𝙽𝙴𝚂𝚂, or you will find close acquaintance with the lean edge of my 𝙱𝙻𝙰𝙳𝙴. ❜

@singofus | ℍ𝔼ℝ𝕄𝔼𝕊

Ah patience. Such a fragile thing that the god of War possessed. Though he had perfected to harness the use of restraint over the course of his divine existence, it would only take so much for someone to finally make him... snap.

"You play your coy games with me, dear brother. " The chuckle that followed was laced with irritation, low and threatening. There was dangerous fire in the eyes of the god. And before the Winged Messenger could escape, Ares' hand had shot out to grab him by his shapely ankle. " But I see now that you truly wish to test me. "

It would seem that Hermes had stirred the hornet's nest. Effortlessly, the Wargod tosses the Trickster right across the room in the opposite direction of the exit as if he were a mere ragdoll. Then, dangerously marching towards him, he summons two sharp blades in his hands that oozed his red doom.

" So adamant you are at keeping my attentions on you. " With a sharp smile, he tosses one of the weapons towards Hermes. " Let us play one of your clever games then and see how long you keep my interest. "

@rageinacan | 𝕂ℝ𝔸𝕋𝕆𝕊

" I feel you still burning inside with RAGE, Spartan... " The titanic size of the god of war dwarfed the marked warrior below. " Such a waste of surging power. Were you not pious to me once? Ungrateful for all that I have granted you. Victory. Strength. Power. The BLADES OF CHAOS with which you smite all that stand in your way. "

The divinity's lips upturned in bitterness as he continued. " You have pledged yourself to me. And I have shed blood for you. This comes with a hefty price. You know this well. Such is the way of this world. "

Ares stretched out his hand towards the mortal, his giant palm beckoning for the warrior to step upon it.

" Your fury is misguided. Use that ANGER not towards me, but to those who have created the world thus. To those gods up in olympus, your people so adored, that have given humanity nothing but suffering. Fight for ME, Kratos."

@chaieos | ℍ𝕐ℙℕ𝕆𝕊

He longs for sleep.

One by one, the pieces of his blood-stained armor were discarded, landing haphazardly on the chamber floor, as the god made his way towards the canopied bed. Each metal piece would land with a clatter and clang. His helmet, his bracers, his gauntlets, the scabbard of his sword.

With a low grunt he would struggle to be rid of his crimson cape, which now lay in tatters and was weighted down with so much blood... so much blood. He all but rips it off impatiently.

Fresh in his memories still were the battles he had fought. Ringing in his ears were the screams and cries of agony. The visions of viscera and gore, the brutality and bloodlust of war.

Now stripped in the nude, he lands on the bed like a heavy weight, barely even shaking off his broken sandals as he does so. Ares claws his way towards the pillows, willing away the images of suffering as he plants his face into their softness to forget.

The atrocities of war always comes with a hefty price. He knows this more than any other being on earth. In its wake would beget the grieving and wailing of mothers, the widowing of wives, the children left orphaned by the slain. He would father them all if it were in his power, to love them and protect them and raise them as his own...

But tonight he only wishes for sleep. Weary was he for a long deserving rest. The god of War hoped and prayed that he may be spared from the endless nightmares dealt by his own hand. That the Lord of Slumber may bless him a with a dreamless repose.

He longs for Sleep...