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[b][center][color=91A6B4]𝔗 𝔥 𝔢   𝔐 𝔬 𝔯 𝔯 𝔦 𝔤 𝔞 𝔫[/color][/center][/b]
[/h1][/sup][/color][indent][sub][COLOR=91A6B4]ꜱᴇᴀᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴜɴɪᴠᴇʀꜱɪᴛy[/COLOR][/sub][/indent][indent][sup][right][COLOR=91A6B4][b]MOOD: ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴇᴀᴛɪɴɢ ᴄʜᴀʀᴛꜱ![/b][/color][/right][/sup][/indent][hr]
[color=gray][indent][indent]The Morrigan is a precise woman. When she sent her emails, penned her letters, ordered her crows, she did so with the message that it was The Conclave – with a capital ‘C’. Capitalization to signify the importance of the Conclaves and why attendance was dire. Yet, still, the gods bumble into the room like toddlers with their ‘why, why, why’s. Part of her wants to scream ‘why? Because I said so!’, but then she would have to deal with at least [i]two[/i] gods calling her ‘mom’. 

First it was Mot, sweeping into the room with his disinterest and disdain, demanding answers from her like she was his to serve. Politely, she told him to wait, as there were more to come. Politeness went out the window when it was asked a second time, by Shango, and she answered with clipped tones and forced smiles ([color=91A6B4][b]“Not everyone is here yet, please take a seat where your name is.”[/b][/color]) And her seating chart! Her seating chart, thrown out the window by everyone and their damn mother! Do they not know how much of her prints she used up for those name slips?

By the time the danishes arrived, a headache had already formed in her temple like a steady beat of a drum. No, with Zeus in the room, it became a sledgehammer on soft clay. She pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes to the gods, breathing in and out with the whirr of the air conditioning. The din of the room faded behind the kaleidoscopic swirls of her eyelids and she lost herself in her breathing. When she opened her eyes again, she was calm – not collected, noticeably, but decidedly less likely to rip another god’s head off with her bare hands.

With a new distance from the chaos of the room, the Morrigan watched the pantheons behind a veil of disinterest and cold observance. It seemed that a lot of them were under the impression she [i]liked[/i] these Conclaves, that she enjoyed bringing them together for dick measuring contests when all she wants is answers. When all she wants is to return to her place in the universe. The Morrigan glared at an empty seat, noticing the absence of the Roman gods with a prick of annoyance. Of course, they wouldn’t show, even when one of them RSVP’d. Well, Mars might show eventually, to report back to his brother-in-arms.

[color=BCD4E6][b]“You must wait no longer, my fair lady~!”[/b][/color] The thin veil between her and chaos snapped, torn down by the hands of Benzaiten (no, she goes by Bentley now). [color=BCD4E6][b]“Did you get my email about next semester? Not that I mind seeing everyone still alive and kicking, but you don’t [i]need[/i] to throw these little meetings to see me, I’d [i]come[/i] wherever you asked me to.”[/b][/color]

The Morrigan cleared her throat, belatedly noticing that Benzai – Bentley had taken her hand to kiss. A little bit of heat stuck to her hands where her lips once were, and the Morrigan snatched her hand away quickly to clasp in her other hand. She forced a smile, polite but distant, [color=91A6B4][b]“Ah, I haven’t had a chance to check my email, what with planning the Conclave. It [i]is[/i] about to start, I think I see a seat with your name over there that you can – fuck it, just sit wherever you want, everyone else is.”[/b][/color]

Last time she makes a damn seating chart. She, once again, wonders why she bothers as she twists away from Bentley to take a drink of water from her water bottle. When she turns around again, there’s vomit on the floor and the room stinks of upchucked fish and artificial raspberry. The Morrigan runs her hands over her face and glares at the empty seats once more. Fuck the Romans, fuck the Greeks – hell, fuck everyone for ruining her [i]seating chart[/i]. Who does that? Their names are clearly on their seats! It doesn’t get much simpler than that!

[color=91A6B4][b]“Poseidon.”[/b][/color] She says instead, fingers gripping the podium she stands behind as she smiles at the long-thought dead god (except she knew, always had known). [color=91A6B4][b]“I’m glad to see you made it. Please take a seat…wherever. Thank you, Anubis, for getting the janitor.”[/b][/color]

She waited until the mortal janitor left before talking about their very discrete matter. [color=91A6B4][b]“Everyone please settle down, I have something important to say.”[/b][/color]

No one heard her, caught up in their own conversations, and she thinks she even spies three of the Greeks napping. Do they really think she called a Conclave for them to dally? Does no one understand the risk they are taking, letting the Colossus sit in the unknown?

Hephaestus’s mysterious death in Seattle meant more than a simple mourning. It meant they were killable – by something [i]other[/i] than distance from the Colossus. It meant that they were immortal, but not invincible like they originally thought. They don’t have her power, they don’t see the threads of fate twisting before her eyes, and they didn’t see the clean snip of Hephaestus’s string. It wasn’t his [i]fate[/i] to die – someone manipulated fate to kill him, cut the threads themselves, and it wasn’t just wrong, it was [i][b]impossible[/b][/i].

[color=91A6B4][b]“Please, everyone just – ”[/b][/color] and still they continued, Hades even managed to slink in during the chaos. She couldn’t take this anymore! She is so tired of being the responsible god, the god that calls the Conclaves, that covers for them when they slip on their secret – tired of being the damn janitor!

[indent][indent][sup][h2][color=black]“Hephaestus is dead and I don’t know who killed him.”[/color]
[color=91A6B4]  “Hephaestus is dead and I don’t know who killed him.”[/color][/h2][/sup]
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