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[b][center][color=crimson]H E R A C L E S[/color][/center][/b]
[/h1][/sup][/color][indent][sub][COLOR=f9cb9c]	[I]UNIVERSITY OF SEATTLE[/I][/COLOR][/sub][/indent][indent][sup][right][COLOR=f9cb9c][b]Divine Protector[/b][/color][/right][/sup][/indent][indent][indent][hr]

Had Heracles wanted to say something about the loss of the best smith this world had known? Of course, he did. He wanted to express his Grand Canyon-sized sorrow at the fact that this world, mortal or not, was deprived of someone so true and so hard-working and everyone would experience the pain. But he couldn’t. And do you know why? One reason.

[color=crimson][i]Hera went fucking mental![/i][/color]

Whether that was harsh of him to think, given that her son was announced dead remained to be seen. Heracles certainly held no love in his godly heart for the Queen of Olympus and even less since she insulted his perfectly capable, and, if he did say so himself, quite majestic Egyptian goddesses, shields from her wrath, but the accusation spree she went on sent shiver upon shiver down his spine that forced the mighty protector of Athens to feel something he hadn’t since he stared down Hades when he was sent to retrieve Cerberus.

Fear. Impure, unadulterated, completely shivering in his boots, fear. 

Every inch of his body that would’ve stood up and defended Hathor and Bastet was doing everything it could not to literally shit his pants. Instead, it was Hathor who seemed to calm his stepmother, though with the addition of his step-brother, Ares, pulling out a gun on Shango and Athena sparing no expense, this did nothing to quell the rising storm that was Hera’s grief nor did it do anything to help the morale of the room. 

[color=crimson]“Yep, we’re fucked.”[/color] Heracles muttered to himself, taking in deep breaths. 

Ever since being reduced to something slightly more than a mortal, in times where he felt his life might actually be in danger, Jackson, not Heracles, often found ways to cope. Sometimes it meant burying his face between bountiful cheeks of some college girl who made their way to one of the many parties hosted at Acropolis and others it meant meeting his Seattle Fans at impromptu lunches at whatever restaurant was closest to his and APollo’s condo. Whatever he indulged, it often helped Jackson Drake not feel so anxious in his own skin.

And seeing guns and grieving mothers assume the worst about everyone in the room brought him back to the times he was nearly killed by said gunslinging gangster and scorned Hera; so much so that he sank into his seat even further. Haunted by all of this, brave Heracles was about to cower away, sink under the table, and plan his escape, but then he caught a whiff of a familiar aroma. It took him by surprise and without warning, he felt...calmed. It was like he took in the mist version of a blunt and all of his worries were gone. Any feeling he had that was even remotely close to anxiety and terror and even pain for losing Hephaestus was replaced with a neutral, centered self.

[color=crimson]“Aphrodite.”[/color] Yes, this was her doing. 

As he looked over at the Goddess of Love, he sent her a grateful nod. [color=crimson]“Thank you, Aphrodite! I’m glad you didn’t...mist your mark.”[/color]

Was he going to get criticized for that remark? Probably. Did he regret? Not a damn chance! [/indent][/indent][/color]
[right][sub][color=crimson][b]Interactions[/b][/color] — [@baraquiel][/sub][/right]