#hephaestus' starter

[lellarps]

open to anyone! scenario: hephaestus is in a tavern, among humans. his essence and size are a far cry from looking human or mortal. do with it whatever you want. any period setting.

The tavern was loud, crowded, and thick with the smell of cheap wine and sweat. Hephaestus was sitting in the corner like a storm cloud, a half-empty cup in his iron grip. The chair beside him empty—either by chance or because no one dared to get too close.

That's, however, when he noticed someone near, someone looking.

His mouth twisted into something that was hardly a smile. The firelight caught the scars along his face, highlighting the hollow where his eye should be.

"Go on. Say whatever it is you're thinking" he spat.

[lellarps]

open starter. reposted. hephaestus is working. your muse dropped by.

The forge crackled around him, sparks leaping like fireflies in the dim glow of molten metal. He was mid-swing, hammering out a piece of celestial bronze, when the sound of footsteps reached him, uninvited. Hephaestus paused, his grip tightening on the haft of his hammer. Whether it was a mortal fool or one of his godly kin, he'd hear them out. But his patience, like the fire of his forge, burned hot and quick today. "Speak," he rumbled, "and don’t waste my time."

He was no stranger to interruptions. The gods, with their endless demands for weapons, trinkets, or displays of superiority, were frequent visitors to his forge. They were rarely grateful, often entitled, and quick to claim his work as their own. Mortals, on the other hand, came with humility — or sheer audacity. He usually found them to be more tolerable. Besides, he had a grudging respect for smaller beings who dared to stand before him, though even then, he was selective. Crafting was an art. And he was usually selective about who he lent his skills to.

Raising his gaze to the intruder, Hephaestus waited. Perhaps they were staring at his one missing eye, or his right leg and arm, both made of iron? His uneven lips? How dare they… "If you’ve come here with no words, turn back now" he said, setting the hammer down with a resonant clang.

[lellarps]

open to anyone! scenario: hephaestus, for some reason i havent thought about yet, is suddenly in a human body in a very modern world. your muse is maybe a passerby? some paranormal investigator? anything that fits! don't worry about size.

It felt like falling from Olympus all over again: an unending, painful descent through void and chaos. But this time, there was no abrupt, bone-shattering end on the rocks below. No. The fall ceased with a blink — a moment that dropped him into a world that was loud, suffocating, and alien.

The cacophony hit him first: the voices overlapping, the hum of strange machines, and the distant wail of what might have been music. Then came the smells — nothing like the comforting tang of molten metal and burning coals. Hephaestus blinked again, his senses reeling as he took in the lit room, filled with tables, chairs, and people rushing past. A cafeteria, though he did not know the word for such a place.

He looked down at himself, puzzled by the strange garments now clinging to his body: rough jeans, a sleeveless shirt that left his muscular arms bare, and sturdy boots. The clothes felt too light, like armor that would offer no protection, and yet they fit him well. His long, curly hair fell around his shoulders, his beard framing a face that might pass for human—if not for the faint golden glow in his eye, a hint of divine fire that never truly dimmed.

Cold. That was the next thing he noticed. Not the chill of wind or frost, but the absence of warmth — the kind that came only from his forge, his true home. It left him feeling strange, as if part of himself had been left behind. And it had... hadn't it? Something of his divinity... Even his iron arm seemed now to be made of flesh now...

A figure passed by. Hephaestus acted on instinct. His calloused grabbing the stranger's wrist with a grip that was firm but not cruel. The god's touch set off a faint glow on the back of his hand — the outline of a hammer and anvil, his eternal mark, briefly igniting with golden light.

"Where am I?" he demanded, his voice deep and rough, tinged with an edge.