#stephanos.about

[miindkiiller]

family seating ;;

alternate title, fatherhood

this would be the second time stephanos would make such an attempt.

the first was greeting his own mother; a figure either chosen by cult or granted by fate, but one he'd made his attempt to accept all the same. the hecate he'd met seemed pleased with his offering, and just as pleased to consume it; was she pleased when she accepted the offering of a life? an exchange made to save others, to prevent the deaths of thousands, at the cost of two?

one, who broke guard and weakened -- so the other could be killed.

stephanos didn't have words for hecate, at the moment. she could reach him had she any for him, and he wasn't planning to make an offering of his own life any time soon. perhaps that was cold, but that was the nature he found when he looked her way. the calculation and craft of magic. the binding of oaths. the nature of transition from one realm to the next.

no, this meal was for a different guest. one similarly, but likely not equally, revered.

the dining room table was adorned in oak leaves and shed horns. the glory of bulls, the proof of trees tall and old. into cups, rich red wine was poured. something on the stronger side, sweet and dry, strong enough to almost assault the senses. and then, for the meal.

first course; steak tartare, seasoned and molded into the shape of a cows' head. blended with onions and capers, worked with duck yolks for richness. brined capers and cornichons for acidity, and chives for color.

second course; a simple soup of chicken broth made with collected (and filtered) rainwater, rice, and lemon. warm and welcoming, like the gentle act of hospitality itself.

third course; grilled branzino stuffed with orzo and feta cheese. served whole, the split belly bursting with filling. finished with grilled citrus slices decorating the top of the still-scaled fish.

fourth course; pork braised in honey and oranges, cooked low and slow over the previous day. a bridge of sweet and savory, showing both effort and care in its intent and effect.

final course; fresh coffee and honey cakes. a modern take on a very classic recipe, stephanos felt a little silly shaping them into pigs and goats, but that was what history seemed to state. if it was an offense, then he could only beg forgiveness, if not understanding.

"while this may not be the most impressive offering you've ever received," stephanos begun, addressing the air where he'd hoped zeus, king of gods, might appear. "I do hope it appears heart-felt. your sons have a history of being heroes, figures of story and song." he placed his hand over his own heart. "your son has been a part of my story, here, almost from the moment I've arrived."

their meeting was rather...sudden, and intense, and unexpected. the very things he'd shown mild surprise at from the others, connections made so swiftly, without even realizing he'd made some of his own just as fast.

"there aren't many things I could ask of you. even this moment here might be too much. but men in love are fools, and I can prove no exception." three children, he's had, and yet this is the first conversation he's ever had of this kind. it's jarring, for the man so put-together to suddenly feel so off his footing. "I love your son. I've come to care for him, I've seen terrible things happen to him. I've seen him put everything on the line to protect not just myself, or our other partner-- but the others here. strangers. regular people out in the world, wholly unprepared for the things that we face. adam might not have authors detailing his every action, but I do see your son as a hero in our time. whether he acts as one now, or will become one in the future." stephanos stood firm, or at least attempted to, without appearing defiant before any presence that might join him.

"your son has the strength to fight the very nature of the world, and-- I do think, the gall to try." adjusting his glasses was mostly to give himself, and the words, a bit of pause. "I would ask you, his father, for the permission to take his hand. the hero and the man, both. I'd ask you for any blessing you might grant, that I could be at his side when the world grows too heavy. when the impressions others try to put upon him grow too large, too far from his shape. that I might be at his back when he proves to us all who he truly wants to become."

all that being said, it was likely time to eat-- whether stephanos had a guest, or was seated alone.

@heartsonghq

[miindkiiller]

( theo james, bisexual, cismale he/him, support ) «—◦—→ well met, STEPHANOS GARDYNE! the divine born child of HECATE. your name sings in our ears! it’s been 42 years and now they have answered the song in their veins. before they answered the song, they were a CORRECTIONAL COOK and were living in MAINE, UNITED STATES. history and myth will remember them for their NURTURING NATURE, DISCERNMENT, and CONTENTMENT but will also magnify their INVESTMENT IN OTHERS, OFT-MISPLACED HOPE, and NOSINESS if it causes them to falter. now it is time for the world to sing their name with them.

stephanos gardyne, 42. correctional facility cook for 22 years, 14 years as lead.

born to elyas and lynn gardyne. and, apparently, hecate. father of theadora, cassie, and giannis polous-gardyne, with rita polous.

scorpio sun, scorpio moon, and mercury, and venus, and jupiter... and virgo rising. not that he has any idea what that means, aside from the occasional joke about frogs and rivers. (it's just in his nature.)

male-leaning bisexual. less dominant, more submission-averse. pancakes cook on both sides - but sometimes, you can just cook one side really hard.

been a dad for half his life, looking forward to whatever comes next. his best friend and the mother of his children-- (more like he's the father of her children--) waved him out the door as he took the first steps to this next adventure.

he hopes he packed enough collared shirts. he has his latest vision prescription saved, and some spare contacts. his physical and std tests are up to date. he was early in line for his real id.

ducks in a row | dad friend | southern gothic | father with a figure | wear it out | hearts through stomachs | it's always the mild-mannered ones | one for all | glasses-pushing schemer | who needs privacy | once son, then father, now sage | walk backwards into the abyss | fear is the mindkiller

[miindkiiller]

theadora, firstborn polous-gardyne

the her-ricane 🌀

wild-haired, wide-eyed. the eldest sister. esoteric curiosity and precision to find the answers she seeks.

highly likely to seek involvement in magical or mystical things, if not just to settle the mind's hunger for details that'd elude her otherwise.

has her mother's eyes (cold and commanding) and her father's hair (naturally buoyant, fluffed) but treats her eyes like her father's (warm stares turned cold) and her hair like her mother's (letting it grow, which leaves it wide and wild).

core driving emotion: somewhere between curiosity and FOMO.

[miindkiiller]

cw: body horror, gore, etc

getting up the next morning, stephanos rolled upright, and stared down at

his hands.

the dream was still very fresh; simply put, that the link between him and the torment nexus was never actually broken, and he'd continued to rot. through skin, through fat, through connective tissue, to bone. as tendons would dry out and snap, as cartilage would shrivel, fat melting into grease. along his arms, over his shoulders, dividing to conquer his neck and his chest at once. crawling over his stomach, paving the way for ribs to appear, until his diaphragm didn't have enough of a seal to pull air into his lungs. burning hair. rotting meat. and it all started from

his hands.

he looked at them now, held one over to the other, touching fingers, tip to tip. he could feel both sides. but were they his? he'd seen the damage. he'd felt the ruination, the ravaging, how it left him staggered and stunned, and now it's not there at all. no scar, or mark, or evidence remaining but the memory, the ghost of it. the imagining of a set of gloves, that he'd pull this illusion off and find that the real limbs were still there, still frayed and flayed and fried. he couldn't tell if these were still

his hands.

how many wounds would he receive, would they receive? how much damage would their bodies take? and each time, would it be erased? undone, like unwinding time? parts made, parts covered, parts replaced? a classic problem-- if each part of them were ruined and recovered, would they still be who they were before? or would they be entirely replaced? would they still feel, still know, still be, who they were before? would they need to? were their previous lives some sort of cocoon, only meant to house them until they'd crack and burst through, standing among the remains of what they once were? and how much of that replacement would be done at the behest of

his hands?

stephanos spent much of that morning in his cabin, partially stunned, partially dazed, as if having delayed the shock and terror until he had time to deal with it. before now, he'd always assumed to be the protector, in some way. that's what a father does. but, according to hecate, his time as the father was at an end. and if he didn't find out what this next phase of his life would expect from him, he risked losing a lot more than just

his hands.

[miindkiiller]

there it is again. that pleasant prison, contentment.

stephanos wasn't fully aware of his return to complacency, until dawn bled through the blinds of another bedroom. adam's? prospero's? he wasn't sure which, and even that was routine, gentle collisions in some configuration of two or three, or even chasing the scent of the one missing by sleeping in their space. the schedule was loose, but it was present; meals at similar times, study at similar times, infirmary work at similar times, rest, things wholly aside from rest, and then rest once more. a pattern. a beautiful pattern, mind; a comfortable pattern, a warm pattern, with teeth that sank in and pulled, tugging, affectionately. a pattern that'd make many similarly-configured men fluster.

a pattern just complex enough to elude stephanos' perception, until he was surrendered to it, utterly.

a pattern that could trap him. for another twenty years, perhaps? it'd be a happy few decades, certainly. strange powers and regular vacations, punctuated with danger and desperate measures, only to return home and fall into each others' arms, as if the purpose of the excursions was purely to sweeten the taste of each other.

a pattern that needed to be challenged, before the door would close and he'd never find it again, until he didn't know where all the time had went.

word had gotten around about praying to their parents; an odd notion, seeing as they'd met them in person, not so long ago. the compass-pointed round of his own laurel crown, his first ritual circle, hung from his door as a wreath. welcoming and warding, in equal measure. and he had to wonder, would he pray to hecate? did he feel something strongly enough to do so?

ruminating on the topic, he did have some thoughts to share. perhaps not as a prayer, as a devotional, but as a conversation. reaching out, as much as reaching up. an adult child attempting to meet a long-estranged parent on more middle ground.

with the taste and composition of adrian's honeycakes in mind, stephanos set to work.

cooking could be compared to rituals, to alchemy, to magic itself, in a way. transformation, transfiguration. clear steps to achieve a result. afflicting his will on reality, creating sensation and sustenance from more base components.

stephanos called the elements around his own kitchen, circle in place around the space, and set to work. as a professional cook would return home to help in a holiday dinner, stephanos spoke into the space, as part of the ritual. sharing space with hecate, should she decide to join him, or merely accept the experience as form of devotional; however she would choose. his part, was to offer. how or whether she chose to receive, was her decision.

"three seems to be an important number for us," he'd began, as he worked through his mise en place. chopping, counting, weighing, setting aside. everything in its place. in this case, three courses. a meal to be shared. a family gathering, of sorts; there were plates to be set aside for merrick, as leftovers were as much an important part of gatherings as the meal itself. "I cannot help but wonder if that is your influence, active or otherwise." was he intrinsically drawn to triplicate? did rita want to stop at three kids, or had he simply completed another triangle? was he always meant to be with two people at once? "one can even say I've known three sons of hecate, including myself." the other only by word and the wake of his actions, that page still in his book. "but I try to keep in mind that thinking of a pattern makes us seek to repeat it. the fortune teller implies that a man with a blue hat will change your life, so you seek this man out, and feel changed. you own a car of a certain make and model, only to begin to see it everywhere." patterns seen, as much as mere attention and awareness.

the effort progressed to an appetizer; brief research informed the menu. a salad of arugula with charred onion and roasted garlic, dressed in a honey and pomegranate vinaigrette. specifically configured, but also balanced for taste; he did intend to enjoy the meal himself, aside from the saved portions.

tossing everything in the bowl, mixing the dressing, he continued-- "as someone apparently destined for crossroads, I find myself more attuned to cul-de-sacs." endpoints. loops. moving pleasantly and endlessly in a circle, with the exit in sight, but not at all desired. "are these points of transition? does repetition charge the eventual exit? is the purpose the crossing, if those moments are so brief between long bouts of stability?" not exactly light dinner conversation, but this wasn't the table quite yet-- this was the kitchen. politeness would give way to creation, to transformation, to transition. most cooks he knew didn't keep it polite in the kitchen. he kept it orderly, not soft or silent.

with a brief detour to dessert -- as he wanted to use his oven to bake, rather than risk a mishap with his enchanted 'stovetop' -- stephanos folded the lavender and the poppy seeds into the lemon loaf batter. he'd intended to combine the experience of a glass of lavender lemonade with the cool bite of a lemon poppy seed muffin, and the recipe was more of a tester than a known factor. the offering was as much in the making, as sharing the space, as it was in the dessert itself; if failure prevented divine affection, then why try at all? as one must fail, in order to learn how to better and best proceed.

glaze cooling and loaf baking, he arrived at the matter of the entree. milk-simmered potato mash, and cinnamon-spiced pork, paired with apples and carrots. the menu tended a bit sweet, but there didn't appear to be many savory offerings to hecate. "do all gods have a sweet tooth?" he asked, daring to tease-- "or is it just the titans?" his grin was as private as hecate would prefer, whether she'd witness it or leave it on record. "that aside, what I'm reaching out to say, is this." replacing the cake with the pork, he put desert to chill as he begun work on the potatoes. "you marked the transition of my life from fatherhood, to that of a guide for others. not the hand that rears, but the mind that lends its learned experience to others, so that mistakes don't have to be repeated." what mistakes has he made? far too many to count, most likely. "what I must ask now -- or, more likely, talk through with you present -- is where to go next. I have to resist the temptation to accept what I have, and not reach for more." stephanos' caution has always led to contentment, happiness in what one has, rather than what one doesn't. his hands on the oven handle, he turned to face the middle of the room. imagining her there, to continue the conversation. "I love what I have. I appreciate what I have. attempting to attain more-- more knowledge, more power, more capability, is not a disrespect to all that I currently have, and all I currently am." an affirmation, or if he dared it-- an oath. "I thought about inviting adam and prospero, or even merrick, but I realized this was a conversation for us to have, ourselves. or me, to the imagined effect of you, so I can process how to proceed."

rather than relying on a timer, he'd attempted a minor effect; the same alarm that'd alert him of someone crossing the threshold, applied to the meat reaching a certain temperature, at its deepest. pulling the pork out to rest, stephanos returned to the cake to get it glazed and cooling once more.

"I offer this evening of conversation. companionship as I would my own mother. sharing the act and effort of crafting a meal, of sharing one's affection and creativity through sensation and nourishment." nodding as he pronounced each word specifically, deliberately, carefully. "I offer a serving of this meal. I offer a seat at the table, to share it." salad, tongs into bowls. potatoes scooped, pork sliced and laid across the bed of them. "I offer time shared, open thoughts, and consideration." loaf sliced, and it smelled just right.

three courses. three portions of each. one for stephanos, one for hecate, and one to be set aside for the brother he's met. a pattern that seemed more right to maintain.

"in return, I request clarity. from myself, or from guidance at your hand. for I fear the ease with which I return to complacency, as much as I understand and welcome the comfort."

with the meal served, stephanos raised his hands, and closed the circle.

he'd have to leave the ritual space to set the table, so that was just being polite.

[miindkiiller]

passing by the library, stephanos often finds one person researching or another. he's there for recipes, or magic, or myths; selfish interests, often enough. he's spent a fair amount of time chasing trails early in his tenure, but he was quick to discover that faster rabbits more often caught the threads. the fates had dealt more interesting or more dangerous tapestries to those with more life ahead of them than behind. so, he's become more accustomed to letting the others race ahead. joining when he has time or the mind, when someone remembers to inform or ask. it's another quiet life he's found for himself; as quiet as either of his partners or his dog would leave it.

having caught someone with a question, as usual, he helped where he could; for one reason or another, likely the noted curse coming into effect, they'd found some information -- but not enough. wanting to give the man space to process, he stepped away, continuing after finding what his own purpose for arriving was. apparently, shortly after, a more important discovery was made-- one important, vital. lauded, even. just a few seeming moments after he'd departed.

and, again, the fates had decided. those whose hands upon the world would turn, and those who were meant to watch. comfortably, perhaps, from a balcony not too far away. with a full home and a full heart. more than one could have ever asked for, truly.

if they need him, or until they need him, he'll be there.

he has the spare baskets and a countertop covered in desserts to prove it.

[miindkiiller]

*** from a stone

the first stone was somewhere between a mishap and a happy accident.

when his partners returned from their shopping trip, arms laden with new gadgets and gizmos, one specific object went to him. an odd little iron fish. stephanos thought little of it, at first. it went in the pot when boiling or braising, when making soup or broth or anything that'd involve an amount of liquid. iron was an important part of anyone's diet.

them, especially, since they were always bleeding in some way or another.

the stone traveled in his bag of holding, packed with his cooking equipment, suffused and infused with both flavor and power. especially once he started weaving magic into his dishes. whenever he'd pull his pots or pans or bowls out, it'd be there. he wasn't certain of its magical properties until he found himself reaching for it before a fight. since then, the fish had seen numerous combats first-hand, a single iron eye facing the world.

when it came time to restore someone's memories, to resist the effects of another titan's ire, stephanos didn't have to think twice before tapping on all that stored power. that love for his partners, that care for the others he's cooked for. resistance and appreciation abound. while he didn't normally have the strength to crush iron in his bare hand, it was the power suffusing the stone that did the work. crumbling it to iron dust, blowing away, its investiture spent towards what he believed was a worthy cause.

the next day, reviewing some of the information he'd obtained from a handsome chef of a vampire, stephanos began the process of creation himself. only, it wasn't just creating another iron fish-- it was a becoming. embracing his capability as as a spellcaster, a cultist of food and cosmic fright, a son of the goddess of magic herself. numerous threads weaving together to form his tapestry.

he woke early, likely disturbing at least one denizen of the cabin. trailed down the stairs by perked ears and a happy gait, stephanos spared the occasional scritch for one bones as he set his grimoire out of splash range. this was going to take a serious amount of cooking, and a serious amount of magic. that his men would be able to enjoy what came of it, as well as packing away for the rest of the week, was mostly a bonus.

to begin, he took an iron lump. the shape would come with time. first, it was boiled, enchanted. then again. then again. the spell constricting the metal to condense, and condense, heating and wrapping around it, contorting it into shape. not forging it, no; he wasn't changing the structure of the iron he wasn't hardening or purifying. only condensing. whatever was in the iron, impurities and all, would stay there. definitive, defining. this wasn't to create a more perfect stone. this was to let this stone become something powerful, something indicative.

six or so rounds in on the shaping, he was joined by one of his lovers. starting another pan for breakfast was nothing for the volume cook, splitting his attention between a dish, a spell, and a man. that only became harder to deal with when said man started pushing in, leaving the mage panting with spread hands on the counter, while he was spread. rising onto the balls of his feet, knees shaking, until the first spend. then the second. after the third, he begged a brief recess, and made to continue the work he'd only been half-managing since being joined. said break lasted just long enough to progress to the next part of the process -- sincere use. he'd dropped the newly shaped fish into a stock to boil when his shorts were tugged down once more, someone rather eager to get a taste of what they'd left behind. jostled much less by the action, his toes were still curling as he cooked two meals at once, bare-assed and sighing. only to grip the hanging pot rack over the stove as he was once again mounted and bred, once, twice. there was a brief concern when some of his own excitement landed in the stew pot, but. thinking about it, that just made sense. love was its own form of magic.

beef and pork stew, ladled and refrigerated. chowder, ladled and refrigerated. simple syrup for cocktails or lemonades, jarred and refrigerated. dish after dish, component after component, stephanos cooked and casted each time, fortifying each meal with both vital nutrients and powerful magic. filling the fridge with more meal prep than leftovers, to be eaten as desired. especially since he was interrupted fairly regularly, for kissing or fondling or being bent over the kitchen island. the process did take around eight hours, just like the gourmand had mentioned. in a victorious post-transmutation romp, stephanos considered as he was bounced;

did the gourmand's documentation account for numerous amorous interruptions? or was that simply part of the process?

with darkened cheeks and glasses askew, stephanos leaned in for another kiss, believing himself and the gourmand were more alike than he'd originally thought.

[miindkiiller]

giannis, thirdborn polous-gardyne

the mirror 🎭

surrounded by women (who loved him! mostly!), giannis sought most of his identity directly from the source. determined to reflect his father in as many aspects as he could, giannis didn't take as much time to discover himself, as he took to discover what he could of the man that helped raise him.

severely likely to seek involvement in mystical matters, only if he discovers how deeply involved his father is.

living apart from his role model, giannis is on the hunt for a new identity. the journey to discover himself leads him in too many different directions, too many capacities untested.

his arrival at camp for the holiday may lead to him 'borrowing' the stylings or mannerisms of one or a few demigods. be warned.

core driving emotion: approval-seeking.