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Festive
Melissa
LovelyComplex
Bender
Shovel
AlteredTundra
Horangi
sly13PAN
SYRINX HQ โ PANโS MANSION
casually hating mortals, casually hating gods, dancing like a weirdo, intrigued
Pan looked down at the city of Seattle from his vantage point on the 60th floor of the Syrinx offices and shook his head. Once, this had been a forest, bountiful and overflowing with life. Now, it was a concrete abomination, granted, still overflowing with life, though it was the lowest form. Mortals, running amok, going about their days with a destructive sense of entitlement. They took and took and took, never thinking past the instant gratification of their basest desires.
โMr. Oakley?,โ
Perfect. There was one now.
โMrโฆ Salviusโ called and asked to reschedule your meeting for one thirty, at Altura. You didnโt have anything on your schedule, so I penciled him in.โ The words belonged to Kelly Jackson, the new secretary. She was an unimpressive creature, petit and plain, another face that would wither away in the blink of an eye.
Peter Oakley spun around, a grin on his face. โThank you, Kelly, that sounds wonderful. Are you having a good morning?โ Kelly grinned, and then nodded. โThatโs fucking perfect, Kelly!โ Peter was effortlessly cool, comfortable in any situation. Eccentric, in a way that was entrancing. He had none of Panโs misanthropy, and all of his confidence, a walk that said he was the most important person in any room. It was obvious from the way Kelly stood that she was unnerved by his duality, the way he could go from a tranquil river to a rushing rapid in no time at all. โDo me a favor and call downstairs, let Billy know to pull the car around.โ Kelly nodded and slipped out of the office.
There was nothing particularly wrong with the girl, in fact, she was really quite sweet. They all were quite sweet, for a time. Some lasted longer than others, but at their core, humans did not create; they manipulated things, changed them, but true creation was beyond their inferior souls. They weaponized everything theyโd been granted and that included their very beings. Could they be blamed though? Their role models hadnโt exactly been perfect.
Maybe that's why heโd skipped the Conclave. Of course, Peter Oakley had actual business to attend to, but that could always be moved around. Pan had made a very conscious choice to be absent today. A part of him blamed the others for their current predicament. If Zeus and Poseidon and Hera had kept their pride in check and their anger manageable, they might still be sipping nectar on Mount Olympus, and his forests might never have felt the anguish that now engulfs them.
If Pan had learned anything though, it was that blame could be passed along endlessly, never moving anything forward. Action is what drove the world forward, and years of inaction had led him to this precarious position. His meeting with Marcus Salvius was born from that desire for progress and change. If he kept going at it like a Greek, then he would be no better off than they were now.
Panโs home was an impressive combination of the natural and industrial worlds. Most of the concrete exterior was covered by ivy and shrubbery, towering redwoods lined the edge of the land, and loomed over the home. Fine, sanded wood accented the mansion, little insertions of life to break up the rigidness of the concrete. The god of nature basked in the cold, Seattle air for a moment, inhaling the scent of the forest that surrounded his home, before stepping through the front door.
The interior was as eclectic as itโs owner, filled with art of various styles and cultures, a variety of small trees and plants lining the halls. The outside world had flooded in, natureโs energy pulsing throughout the house. Windows sat open, and the occasional bird flew in and out, sometimes perching on the sill and chirping a tune. The home was welcoming, but orderly and clean, almost like it was ready for an open house. In truth, Pan rarely lounged around his house. He came here to sleep, and shower, to eat. He didnโt allot time for leisure anymore, but if he did, he would have spent it outside, roaming.
Panโs bedroom was the only spot in the house that showed signs of a resident. The bed was a mess of dark sheets, and the closet was slightly ajar, granting a peek at the many outfits that hung within. The far wall was filled with photos and sketches of his fellow gods, those heโd been able to find at least. Some of the photos were clearly older, developed in the time of dark rooms, and a few of the sketches had yellowed and torn with age. His fellow Greeks were all portrayed, in some form or another, as were a few deities from their rival pantheons.
The wall of faces served little purpose, other than to keep the faces of the gods fresh in his memory. Even in the days when heโd lacked his newfound focus, heโd found it prudent to stay aware of the gods and their whereabouts. You never know when one could be used for a helping hand, after all.
Smooth as still water, Pan clapped his hands together, and music began to pour out through the walls. Alone in his room, Pan began to change out of his suit, dancing while he did so. Music was still a luxury that he treasured, and dancing would always be the purest way to experience it. His movements werenโt especially flashy, but there was an energy of freedom that he exuded, a sense that this was his truest self.
By the time the song had finished, Pan was wearing a new outfit, one he felt was more fitting for a lunchtime meeting. The suits were more for Peter Oakleyโs benefit than Panโs. They lended him an air of formality that came in handy when dealing with arrogant men. He knew enough about Mars to understand that he was not prone to undue arrogance. His reaching out was proof enough that Pan had something that he wanted, and thus he had the upper hand. The real question was, what exactly did Mars want?
โMr. Oakley?,โ
Perfect. There was one now.
โMrโฆ Salviusโ called and asked to reschedule your meeting for one thirty, at Altura. You didnโt have anything on your schedule, so I penciled him in.โ The words belonged to Kelly Jackson, the new secretary. She was an unimpressive creature, petit and plain, another face that would wither away in the blink of an eye.
Peter Oakley spun around, a grin on his face. โThank you, Kelly, that sounds wonderful. Are you having a good morning?โ Kelly grinned, and then nodded. โThatโs fucking perfect, Kelly!โ Peter was effortlessly cool, comfortable in any situation. Eccentric, in a way that was entrancing. He had none of Panโs misanthropy, and all of his confidence, a walk that said he was the most important person in any room. It was obvious from the way Kelly stood that she was unnerved by his duality, the way he could go from a tranquil river to a rushing rapid in no time at all. โDo me a favor and call downstairs, let Billy know to pull the car around.โ Kelly nodded and slipped out of the office.
There was nothing particularly wrong with the girl, in fact, she was really quite sweet. They all were quite sweet, for a time. Some lasted longer than others, but at their core, humans did not create; they manipulated things, changed them, but true creation was beyond their inferior souls. They weaponized everything theyโd been granted and that included their very beings. Could they be blamed though? Their role models hadnโt exactly been perfect.
Maybe that's why heโd skipped the Conclave. Of course, Peter Oakley had actual business to attend to, but that could always be moved around. Pan had made a very conscious choice to be absent today. A part of him blamed the others for their current predicament. If Zeus and Poseidon and Hera had kept their pride in check and their anger manageable, they might still be sipping nectar on Mount Olympus, and his forests might never have felt the anguish that now engulfs them.
If Pan had learned anything though, it was that blame could be passed along endlessly, never moving anything forward. Action is what drove the world forward, and years of inaction had led him to this precarious position. His meeting with Marcus Salvius was born from that desire for progress and change. If he kept going at it like a Greek, then he would be no better off than they were now.
Panโs home was an impressive combination of the natural and industrial worlds. Most of the concrete exterior was covered by ivy and shrubbery, towering redwoods lined the edge of the land, and loomed over the home. Fine, sanded wood accented the mansion, little insertions of life to break up the rigidness of the concrete. The god of nature basked in the cold, Seattle air for a moment, inhaling the scent of the forest that surrounded his home, before stepping through the front door.
The interior was as eclectic as itโs owner, filled with art of various styles and cultures, a variety of small trees and plants lining the halls. The outside world had flooded in, natureโs energy pulsing throughout the house. Windows sat open, and the occasional bird flew in and out, sometimes perching on the sill and chirping a tune. The home was welcoming, but orderly and clean, almost like it was ready for an open house. In truth, Pan rarely lounged around his house. He came here to sleep, and shower, to eat. He didnโt allot time for leisure anymore, but if he did, he would have spent it outside, roaming.
Panโs bedroom was the only spot in the house that showed signs of a resident. The bed was a mess of dark sheets, and the closet was slightly ajar, granting a peek at the many outfits that hung within. The far wall was filled with photos and sketches of his fellow gods, those heโd been able to find at least. Some of the photos were clearly older, developed in the time of dark rooms, and a few of the sketches had yellowed and torn with age. His fellow Greeks were all portrayed, in some form or another, as were a few deities from their rival pantheons.
The wall of faces served little purpose, other than to keep the faces of the gods fresh in his memory. Even in the days when heโd lacked his newfound focus, heโd found it prudent to stay aware of the gods and their whereabouts. You never know when one could be used for a helping hand, after all.
Smooth as still water, Pan clapped his hands together, and music began to pour out through the walls. Alone in his room, Pan began to change out of his suit, dancing while he did so. Music was still a luxury that he treasured, and dancing would always be the purest way to experience it. His movements werenโt especially flashy, but there was an energy of freedom that he exuded, a sense that this was his truest self.
By the time the song had finished, Pan was wearing a new outfit, one he felt was more fitting for a lunchtime meeting. The suits were more for Peter Oakleyโs benefit than Panโs. They lended him an air of formality that came in handy when dealing with arrogant men. He knew enough about Mars to understand that he was not prone to undue arrogance. His reaching out was proof enough that Pan had something that he wanted, and thus he had the upper hand. The real question was, what exactly did Mars want?
