@noraxzhao
Petrichor had lived countless lifetimes at this point, facing each passing century with the same stalwart righteousness as the last. Never doubting himself or his missive, he was the favored son of a Titaness, she spoke to him still and over the years he’d only become more resolute in the life he was to live. He did not understand his brother’s desire to become mortal, to live the mortal life, nor did Petrichor ever grow particularly fond of the offshoot creations Fenrir’s actions had created. These werewolves paled in comparison to his phoenixes but the old soul held no prejudice towards them. With Scylla’s murder, everything Petrichor thought he’d known was slowly being questioned, for over three thousand years he had never questioned the will of the Gods, now he was less certain of himself.
Petrichor had never been cold towards the wolves, he helped when he was needed. It’s what Fen would have wanted. But neither was the phoenix particularly warm towards them. That was the part of Petrichor that was still bitter over the loss of his brother.
The man approached the shop, greeted immediately by the soft fragrance of raw wood, so often things were made of plastics and metals, garbage filtered through more garbage. There were power tools, but on the walls hung instruments that had been in varying states of use for centuries. Petrichor could distantly recall the practices across the many years of his life, finding some respect for whatever artisan was working within. Petrichor recognized her, however vaguely, some time ago in - Alaska -? He thought. There had been a pack of wolves, and one tainted soul. Part of him had wanted to leave them to their own devices, but he knew his brother would have thought better of him. “You’re far from home, aren’t you?”
