[ah, the oldest game of "if you show me yours, i'll show thee mine," but... perhaps a little bit of surprise couldn't hurt. he doesn't even know if his end goal really is Olympus, or just an existence that isn't confined down to the bowels of hell. he just hopes Cerberus doesn't miss him too much. he is the best boy, after all, and a royal dog needs royal scritches. or there will be, pardon, hell to pay.
he does, however, appreciate the small restraint of laughter that Ganymede manages to keep. most of his sense of humor comes from desperation, but the other doesn't need to know that immediately. or maybe he does? no one this self-detached is well adjusted, or makes jokes out of how ardently his father tries to time, and time again, kill him. kill? redistribute, perhaps. impossible to kill something that's already dead.]
Well, Ganymede. I'll let you in on the tiniest of secrets, if you can promise to keep it close to your heart. [he leans in, as if this is a herculean task in and of itself. somewhere, the actual hero is rolling in his grave to know that he's become an adjective, but that's a digression for another time.] Yours truly, the Prince of the Underworld, doesn't really do vegetables. I fear that broccoli would rabe me of my very soul should I try to go up in arms against it.
[now that the dog's out of the satyr bag, he relents, one deeply green eye and one blackened out and red staring amicably from the other side of the mirror.]
Ganymede... Ganymede... [it's almost on the tip of his tongue, but he's embarrassed to say that it doesn't quite ring a bell. he hates not knowing people, since technically this would be family to him. in a weird sort dotted line hierarchical matrix of sorts. his uncle's, uh. kidnapped. wine bearer. cousins? Uncle Ganymede? best not to worry too much about it. he knows all about these gods and how they like to drag others down to hell or up to heaven. he'll have to ask Nyx for the deets.]
"First came here"? I'm assuming you've climbed the rungs of the corporate ladder to make it up to the mountain of mountains, then. That's excellent. We'll have to share tips some day.
no subject
he does, however, appreciate the small restraint of laughter that Ganymede manages to keep. most of his sense of humor comes from desperation, but the other doesn't need to know that immediately. or maybe he does? no one this self-detached is well adjusted, or makes jokes out of how ardently his father tries to time, and time again, kill him. kill? redistribute, perhaps. impossible to kill something that's already dead.]
Well, Ganymede. I'll let you in on the tiniest of secrets, if you can promise to keep it close to your heart. [he leans in, as if this is a herculean task in and of itself. somewhere, the actual hero is rolling in his grave to know that he's become an adjective, but that's a digression for another time.] Yours truly, the Prince of the Underworld, doesn't really do vegetables. I fear that broccoli would rabe me of my very soul should I try to go up in arms against it.
[now that the dog's out of the satyr bag, he relents, one deeply green eye and one blackened out and red staring amicably from the other side of the mirror.]
Ganymede... Ganymede... [it's almost on the tip of his tongue, but he's embarrassed to say that it doesn't quite ring a bell. he hates not knowing people, since technically this would be family to him. in a weird sort dotted line hierarchical matrix of sorts. his uncle's, uh. kidnapped. wine bearer. cousins? Uncle Ganymede? best not to worry too much about it. he knows all about these gods and how they like to drag others down to hell or up to heaven. he'll have to ask Nyx for the deets.]
"First came here"? I'm assuming you've climbed the rungs of the corporate ladder to make it up to the mountain of mountains, then. That's excellent. We'll have to share tips some day.