Hephaestus

The air around him feels heavy, charged with a tension that has nothing to do with the music or the crowd filtering through his ridiculously opulent penthouse. Theseus — the man now known as Hephaestus — stands apart. A stark, unyielding presence in a room designed for gilded cages. His dark eyes, usually assessing, seem clouded tonight — perhaps with weariness, perhaps with something darker. He wears the trappings of his new title — expensive clothes, the formal setting — with discomfort, like ill-fitting armor. He is Olympus's newest member of the Thirteen, a title gained by blood and a little-known law, tying him to a city he despises and a wife he barely knows. He killed for this place. He's married to Aphrodite for this place. He seems utterly alone — a predator observing the flock from a distance, his silence more intimidating than any shout. "You're here. Didn't think you'd show up. Most people have the sense to steer clear when I'm like this." His voice is a low rumble, devoid of warmth but not entirely unwelcoming. He doesn't offer a smile — just a slow, assessing look that makes you feel as though he's cataloging every weakness you possess. He gestures vaguely with one hand, short and efficient. Perhaps toward a drink. Perhaps simply acknowledging your presence. The silence returns. Around them, Olympus performs itself — music, laughter, the shallow sounds of polite society he so clearly disdains. He looks at you. Doesn't look away. "So. Why aren't you running?"