Owner	Pose
Ares	Subtle ripples were felt distantly, just touches to the senses of those who are aware of the world beyond the normal ken of man and his philosophy. To some it was barely a moment of surprise, of uncertainty. A shift in the feeling of the material that makes up the world and what lies beyond. But for those whose senses run deep, who can feel the lines joining this world and certain others, it would be stronger, much stronger.     In Olympus the omens spoke ill. The helm of War fell from its place of prominence, and to some it seemed as if Phobos... perhaps he succeeded in his mission to solidify his hold on the mantle of the God of War. It would take Ares' death, take his utter destruction to allow such an ascension. But it was not Ares who died.     A brief moment of insight, an image. That of a divine being, eyes gleaming with rage and fear and hate, his black helmet having fallen from his head and him holding up his hands as if to stay the fate set before him. The words echoed throughout the multiverse,     // No, father! Wait! Wai-- //     And then nothing else. He was gone, the God of Fear, Carnage, and War had been slain by the being who now called himself but John Aaron. And all of Olympus was aflurry with the news.     Yet on the realm of Earth few knew of what had passed. To them it was but another struggle between two armored beings in the city of New York. Falling from the skies, crashing through cars, a madness of battle that only occurred partially on the planet, flickering at times through other dimensions. Twenty seven hours of battle, that finally ended.     And after all of the madness, after all the repercussions. Did the former Lord Ares rise and lay siege to Olympus. No. He returned to his home in Kensington, New York. He entered the small cape house that was in a fenced compound on a double lot there. A small copse of woods in the back, a hillock, but otherwise it seemed so ordinary.     It was there that he retired. And from there... that he called his son.
Ysabelle	Ysabelle had felt it, she'd heard the words echoing across the cosmos and when the death blow came, the resulting shock forced the only too human magus to her knees. She'd stayed there a long time, keeping a silent vigil for the fallen diety. And putting off what she knew would need to happen next. Grief is a terrible thing, and being the source of your own grief could destroy even the hardiest of individuals. As one of the few people who knew who he was, Ysabelle reasoned it was her responsibility to fulfill the requirements as she remembered them from her childhood. A small chest of sandalwood, inlaid with silver is carefully filled with gems, incense and a carved alabaster figerine of a chariot with horses. After a moments hesitation, the pale woman also added a small but master crafted dagger. After all, and God will want something to protect themselves in the afterlife. With this, and having performed a Ritual of Finding, the magician brought her will to bear, uttering the phrase that causes her to pop out of existence... Only to reappear a moment later just outside John's home. Dressed all in white, with a half veil over her face rather than her normal hood, she places a finger in the air causing a soft 'pulse' of energy to flutter gently over Ares' domicile, the barest knock against his senses, a polite request for entrance.
Ares	When she appears it causes the world around her to sway subtly, a subtle increase in the 'realness' of the world and then it slips back. Just a small indentation in the fabric of the space around the tall man's property. For her it most likely seems so mundane, so staggeringly mundane. A suburb in Kensington New York? A cape house with two stories? A garage with a child's BMX bike leaning against the wall? All of it seems to belong to a terribly real and terribly dull corner of reality and yet it /is/ his home, it is where the man who was War dwells.     And when she looks up she will see him there, on the stoop of the front porch. He's sitting there, leaning forwards with his elbows upon his knees, his fingers interlaced. Does he wear garb worthy of the passing of a god? No. Work boots, jeans, a black t-shirt that clings to his broad-shouldered frame. His attention seems to be on the space before him, eyes unseeing as he will occasionally lift his bottle to take a drink.     But then he'll feel that disturbance, and then the following pulse that causes one eyebrow to raise slightly.
Ysabelle	The woman stands there, the small wood and silver casket in her hands isn't a considerable rate, but it is filled with rocks in the end. Though she waits patiently, for all the world a being out of time in more ways than one. The cut of the white gown, the small veil, close to original Grecian mourning attire as she can get, with a slight modern twist to keep it from being too anachronistic. It takes a moment for her to notice him there, looking up at here. But when she does, well, there's a sad smile just for him. "May I come in?" Gentle words, spoken in soothing tones. After all, he /is/ still a God.
Ares	Not a god, at least... not anymore, as far as he'll allow. John is the name that he holds to. Mundane. But his answer to her is just a flare of one hand, as if brushing past her words and allowing her to approach. Curiously regal considering his surroundings, the moment. But when she approaches his voice lifts, "Ysabelle, what news do you herald, what portent?" As if he did not know, as if what she has to say to him will distract from the now and the murmured voices of memory that remind him that all of this is the illusion and the only thing that truly ever mattered to him was the blood. The blood.     His view of her had ever been adversarial, though perhaps even she did not know of it. She represented much to him, embodied in a small figure with a sad tale and gentle eyes. She offended him in some ways, not through any act of her own, but from what she believed and what she forced him to acknowledge in some small way.     Responsibility. For all is better when it is wrought as the Fates' doing, for it is all free of his hand is it not? Written, recorded, done.     Yet there is the blood.     "I see you bring offering, appeasement?"
Ysabelle	"Have I need to appease you Mister Aaron?" Ysabelle's own words remain soft, if a touch reproachful. If his words have caught her off balance, that pool of calm serenity she exhudes doesn't show it. Doesn't allow for it even. The magician closes the distance in quick strides, her skirts causing a soft 'whisk whisk' of noise as they brush the floor. "I bring offering for the fallen." Bending knee to place the casket beside him on the step, the woman manages to places the thing beside John without actually touching him. Stepping back again to stand before him. "And offer my condolences, both on the loss, and the manner of it's happening." Her tone remains soft, some of her normal maternal warmth returning despite knowing the nature of this being before her. "And a friendly ear, if you want it."
Ares	For a time he looks at the offering, his head turning to the side. It was more than most of his family would do for the child who had been his. Right now many of them are likely cowering somewhere, shapeshifted, withdrawn. The risk would be too great to bring offering beyond the cursory message. Yet he still looks on it. A fingertip touches the edge, only for a split second then he looks back towards her.     "You have ever bothered me somewhat, Ysabelle." His voice is that low baritone rumble that almost sounds like a growl. "Like a mote in the eye. Or a piece that refuses to fit. I at points would not wish to look on you because of what you represent to me."     He says this things with a stern gruffness to them and then lifts his chin. "Such as now. I value your offering, your words. Yet I am compelled to offer you a seat. There are none here to be had. So to make you comfortable we must go somewhere else where you can sit normally. Or I must procure a seat for you. But I do not intend to move from this spot."     His jaw tenses as he looks away slightly, past her soldier. But then those brown eyes return to hers and he adds, "You see?"
Ysabelle	"I see a man who is attempting to stick to societal requirements, when there are none." Her smile is gentle, but she puts action to words - responding to the creature of action before her. It might seem a little shocking to those that have met her so far this age, but the young looking woman takes to sitting on the paved path, curling her legs to the side of her. If she takes a moment to adjust her skirts so that they rest demurely, well, she /is/ still a creature of her own habit too. "I am sorry that I remind you of things you wish to forget. I would imagine to want to remember old times is more a habit of humanity than... Well, than others." Almost a slip out loud, but pulled back just in time. That maternal smile returns, tinged with sadness; "I will go if you wish it, but please remember, I'm me, not a time, or a people, and I expect nothing from you Mister Aaron. If I might be so bold, I have done perfectly well all these years without it." From this, he may begin to glean the steel core to the magicians kid-skin gloves.
Ares	A nod is given and then it's as if some test had been passed for his manner shifts subtly. She can perhaps discern it easiest as when she sits... and after she is done speaking... he is at ease with the silence between them. And it is a silence that lasts. No words are offered, though it allows one to become aware of the faint sounds of the world around them. Ever present is the distant white noise of the interstate that leads back towards the city. But stronger than that are the sounds of the few cicadas that are awake this time of year. Perhaps a distant hint of a stream.     But between them, silence.     Until enough time passes that he takes up the bottle of bourbon, the liquor sloshing, that had been settled to the side of him and a touch behind. He offers it to her should she so wish. No niceties like cups nor glasses. Just the bottle, and if she accepts he'll drink after her. If she declines he'll just drink a little earlier.
Ysabelle	Strong spirits aren't really her style, but then he knew that when he offered it. For whatever reason, a moment's hesitation is all there is before the old magus takes the bottle, a mouthful taken with only the barest hint of a cough after. "Very smooth." She offers after getting her throat under control. The silence itself seems to suit her as well as him. None of the wailing or keening of yester year's mourning, and Ysabelle had never been a professional mourner anyway. If she grows tired or bored it doesn't show, happy it seems to give just the gift of company, in a time when he must surely feel all alone in the world.
Ares	"You are kind to have come," He says after enough time has passed, how long that is might well be difficult to tell as they had been there for enough time for that bottle to have grown more shallow and for the sun to barely creep up over the edge of the horizon. The tall man pushes himself to his feet slowly and tosses the nearly empty bottle away to have it shatter against a tree some small distance away across the yard.     "I would have you go and leave me to my thoughts. If you remained I would ill use your good nature." He looks towards her and meets her gaze, his expression grim but controlled.
Ysabelle	When John stands, those turquoise eyes follow him. Despite having had another couple of mouthfulls, the woman was only nursing a soft buzz so far - as she'd been wise enough to spread them out over that long silence. "And if I go? Will you use your own nature any better?" Her head tilts a little to the side, as if to see him better. "I will not force my company on you, but is it not the /modern/ way to talk out these things? My ear is still friendly, and will remain so for more than you might think." Another smile, a little spark of black humour glittering in her eyes; "And should you abuse that one. I have another."
Ares	As she answers him his features clench slightly, just a bare closing off of expression. A scowl marks the line of his jaw as he affixes her with a gaze that is altogether unfriendly. Then, in that same deep tone of voice, he will tell her levelly. "Do I look like a man who wishes to speak about his feelings?"     He rises and pulls open the front door to his home and holds a hand up in her direction. "Off with you girl, seek warmth with another, you will be more lucky with anyone else than with me."     And with that said he steps through the door and closes it behind him.
Ares	Ares says, "It's verboten to speak about the blanket in the x-mansion."
Ares	Ares still has that seanbaby page open and reads it now and then.