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[b][center][color=4221b8]TIMOR[/color][/center][/b]
[/h1][/sup][/color][indent][sub][COLOR=4221b8][I]THE BALL[/I][/COLOR][/sub][/indent][indent][sup][right][COLOR=4221b8][b]mopey, bothered by the GOAT, murder time[/b][/color][/right][/sup][/indent][hr]
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Timor watched the revelry from the shadows, nursing a glass of water, and his pride. How easily Popmpous Apollo would’ve fallen, had they been away from the prying eyes of mortals. Yet now, Apollo danced across the ballroom, and Timor sat skulking in the dark. He looked up to his father and uncle, and allowed himself, for a moment, to picture the day when their visions were reality; the day when order had conquered chaos, the day when his family stood above the other pantheons in victory, the day when Rome walked again. 

Of course, a part of him knew, there would be no place for him or Metus in that world, at least not in the light. He and his brother were beasts of war, mad dogs, and if there was one thing he was certain of, it was that mad dogs did not make good princes. He might leave fear in his wake for all of eternity, but he would never have a throne. Timor chose to believe this was for the best.

He sensed Metus before he saw him, felt the terror begin to lace through the air, faint, but unmistakable. A black cat prowling through the grass, Timor slipped from his vantage point near the stairs and began moving through the crowd, in search of his brother. He might not be able to send the twin archers into the void, but Metus could at least help him find Artemis’ other little bird. The other girl he’d seen had managed to evade his gaze, but she could only hide for so long.

Timor’s path was suddenly blocked by a boy, or at least, a god in the shape of a boy. Pan looked up at him, smirking, a devil in Dolce. [color=b5d79b]“Looking for someone?”[/color] Pan raised his champagne flute to his lips and took a generous swig.

[color=4221b8]“None of your business, goat.”[/color] His words were ice, encasing life as the temperature dropped far below freezing. Timor stared daggers down at the lord of the wilds, but received only a chuckle in response. He clenched his fist and ground his teeth; he wasn’t used to being laughed at.

[color=b5d79b]“Come now, is that any way to speak to your father’s new [i]partner[/i]?”[/color]

Timor didn’t like the way Pan emphasized his words. He had the sense that he was being toyed with, and it only made him angrier. Pan seemed to take the rage as jest, and laughed again, louder this time, so hard he had to grip his stomach. Finally, he calmed himself, and wiped away tears. [color=b5d79b]“Relax, Killer. I’m here to help,”[/color] Pan said.

Timor crossed his arms, the rage receding, if only slightly. [color=b5d79b]“I do not seek help from Grecians.”[/color]

Pan smiled. [color=b5d79b]“Of course you don’t. Blood feud and all that.”[/color] Pan licked his lips. He was enjoying this. [color=b5d79b]“I just figured, you might like to know, that I saw a girl sitting in the bar, looking much too interested in the various exits and entrances. Almost like she was planning an escape. Does that interest you?”[/color]

Timor grunted, unwilling to show any approval in his face, even if that small noise had been enough for Pan to know he’d accomplished his goal. The god of fear surveyed Pan briefly, weighing his words. [color=4221b8]“Where’s my brother?”[/color]

[color=b5d79b]“Now that’s an easy one.”[/color] Pan turned, and pointed across the ballroom to where Metus stood, flanked by Cupid and Venus. [color=b5d79b]“Better hurry. There’s spies afoot.”[/color] Pan slipped away, as quickly as he’d come, laughing at his own jest. Timor shook his head, but wasted no more time. Pan was right. Perhaps this called for some mad dogs.[/indent][/indent][/color]