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[color=black]► 🇹‌ 🇭‌ 🇪‌   🇼‌ 🇪‌ 🇦‌ 🇹‌ 🇭‌ 🇪‌ 🇷‌   🇷‌ 🇪‌ 🇵‌ 🇴‌ 🇷‌ 🇹‌[/color]
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🇵‌🇷‌🇪‌🇨‌🇮‌🇵‌🇮‌🇹‌🇦‌🇹‌🇮‌🇴‌🇳‌: 𝟶%
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🇼‌🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌: 𝟹 mph[/cell][cell][right][h3][color=white]Seattle, WA[/color]
[sup]Saturday 𝟷𝟶:𝟶𝟶 AM
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[indent]Two weeks of revelry, of bliss, of absolute debauchery - once upon a time. In this day and age, though, it is all a power play between the fallen gods. [i]The yearly competition of who has the biggest dick[/i], Loki once quipped, tongue purpled with sweet wine as he eyed the gods over the lip of the bottle. Or what was left of the gods. Every year, fewer and fewer of them show up. They’ve given up on godhood, probably found a spouse and a home with a white picket fence and a boring nine-to-five deskjob. Quaint, dull, [i]normal[/i]. That’s what time does to the immortal and invulnerable - makes them crave the blunt death of old age, if only to break the monotony of living forever. The rest of the gods, the ones who appear to taste the sweet nectar, fight and scramble for the place of baddest bitch in town. Oh, how far the gods have fallen.


The Festival of Life hasn’t even begun and the gods are posturing in the foyer. Hera had slaved over the details, the perfect coordinator who had to have the perfectly coordinated festival. Except for the yearly gala, that always belonged in the hands of Loki who, in turn, left it in the hands of people much lower than him. The first event of the festival was a luncheon, or perhaps it was a brunch. Hera called it a luncheon, except it started at 10 AM sharp. Most would consider that [i]brunch[/i], but if Hera said it was a luncheon, the gods were going to call it a luncheon. 


And so the beginning of the Festival of Life doesn’t start with a bang, but those tiny ham sandwiches and croquet at a country club on the outskirts of Seattle.
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