#traggedia

[ask-thediangelo]

@traggedia has followed you

The night was supposed to be just like every other night. Quiet and calm - with only the sounds of the nocturnal beasts to keep him company.

But there was something different tonight. Another presence. One he wasn't familiar with and it set him on edge.

Halting, with one hand on the pommel of his sword, the chill of Stygian Iron a comfort, Nico glared out into the darkness. "Who's there? "

[traggedia]

SHOULD I ADD MORE OC’S OF MINE INTO MY MULTI OR???...

[gameofwickedness]

☆ﾟ*・ﾟcontinued from here with @traggedia​ ☆ﾟ*・ﾟ

Golden sunshine flooded the room where she was pacing, impatiently waiting for news. Finally, her most trusted lady - Elibel, her cousin -  walked in the room to whisper in her ears the words she’d longed to hear for days. He was back.   A soft smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she ran a hand through her hair, almost nervously. She rubbed her hands together as her cousin arranged her dress.

Guinevere left the room alone. Elibel knew better than to follow her now. Her heart was pounding hard against her chest, each beat seemingly louder as she approached her destination. The young Queen stopped in front of the room, hesitation taking over her for a few seconds. There was nothing wrong with her presence, was it? She was allowed to check on a knight. Guinevere opened the door and a gasp escaped her mouth when she noticed the blood.

❝  A scratch, you say,  ❞  she furrowed her brows, walking towards him. ❝ Even if it is, it can still hurt.  ❞   

She looked around and grabbed a clean cloth before plunging it into a bucket of water. Then, Guinevere turned to Lancelot. ❝ Let me help.  ❞   Not an order, not really, but it did not mean she would let the matter go if he refused. ❝  I used to help my father with his wounds.  ❞   

[odysseusnostos]

@traggedia

A glance over her drink had been enough for Clytemnestra to see the likeness in Electra like she’d never noticed before. The way the light of fire played with her features seemed to tell stories of a recent past, as if she were staring at Agamemnon’s face though veiled by the ghost of Iphigenia. However, there was no hint of herself in Electra, just as there as no trace of such daughter in her own body, as if she had burst out from her father’s skull without a mother’s intervention. 

With a blank expression, Clytemnestra watched her briefly before continuing her dinner, though her attention lingered on the young woman. Would Agamemnon feel her eyes on him if she stared long enough? Would he feel it on his back if she whipped his daughter? After all, she felt what he’d done to their precious child as if it had just happened, and no matter what she did, she couldn’t remove the dagger stuck in her own heart. 

“I’ll soon be sending an envoy to the camp,” she said without taking her eyes off her, as she reached for her cup of wine once again. “Is there anything you’d like to tell your father?”

[argivebeauty]

@traggedia ||

The first few rays of light had barely begun to shine in the sky when the palace where Priam and Hecuba once ruled suddenly fell into silence. For the entire night Helen had listened. The sounds of swords clashing against each other; acute and desperate screams coming from every corner, the cries of soldiers forming that chaotic noise of destruction until the final quietude of death put an end to all of it. The outcome of it was unquestionable. In her most profound fears Helen had anticipated it. Now that fate was knocking at her door, she no longer attempted to deny or escape from it. During these endless hours of battle Helen just waited in solitude, away from the chambers where the other women were hiding, unable to withstand the blame their spiteful resentment. Soon one of them would come to her. One of the greek kings or their warriors. In the meantime she sat solemnly on the bed where once Paris had slept between her arms, accompanied only by her shame and the sorrowful contemplation of the life she had lost. The power of decision once again to be ripped from her, at the very least.

The notion of time had dissipated from existence after such long hours of agony, and when the Mycenaean king stormed in, Helen did not flinch. Her figure was as still as a statue. For the past hours, she had anticipated that Menelaus would be the one to find her, but the sight of Agamemnon brought her little relief. He would hate her, Helen was sure of it. Not for the past ten years spent in battle, away from the comforts of his home, but for the price he had to pay to be there now. What father could endure it – the task of killing his child with his own hands, because of the foolishness of the woman who had dishonored his brother? And yet, Helen stood and faced him. In spite of the tension in her jaw and shoulders, her eyes displayed no submission. Instead they were quiet and observant; measuring his features, calculating the instincts and intentions before he could voice them. Her blood had become warm with the urgency of survival. ‘Has he sent you here to kill me?’, she inquired, her unwavering gaze fixated on him, like a watchful feline stares defiantly at the hunter.

[helenaus]

‘  is  this  all  you  can  do?  ’ ( Aggy to Helen )

“I bet you wonder all the time”.

Helen’s voice was still a little breathless as she spoke, her chest rising in erratic inhales then lowering quickly in short exhales, invigorated by that peculiar elation that comes after the killing of an enemy in combat. A Trojan soldier lay dead at her knees, bleeding vigorously over Menelaus’ tent. Her hands were drenched up to the wrists with his blood, some of his entrails coming out through the deep cuts she had made on his stomach, and she greeted her bother-in-law with a smug smile, lifting her chin haughtily to look at him as if from above.

The sounds of battle had died out as soldiers from both sides withdrew to their resting spots: this one had escaped shortly before it ended, squirming amidst the chaos of clashing swords to reclaim the prize of their prince. When the men returned, the job was already finished. Helen clicked her fingers in a silent order for a servant to bring her a goblet of wine, and she took it to her lips both to soothe her urge for a drink and to hide a little snarl that was beginning to appear on her face at the sight of Agamemnon, who had no business coming to his brother’s tent but to irritate his wife. In smooth, feline movements, she leaned over the corpse before her figure, reaching for the dagger still buried in the lower stomach of this Trojan man, right above his groin. Her hand twisted the knife then pulled it out, letting the blood gush freely from the wound. “To be fair, the thought of you inspired me”, she said, hiding a layer of derisive mockery beneath a tone of feminine seduction.

[lyresung]

@traggedia​ said : ❝  hopefully, you can carry it.  ❞ to Menelaus from Agamemnon

“I will do my best to make our family proud, brother.” Menelaus says. “I had always thought you would be the king, and I would be the younger brother for our whole lives.” He smiles at Agamemnon, unusually cheerful against his typical quiet demeanor. But today is a good day. Today, they are both kings. He glances across the hall at Helen, talking to her sister. “Any advice?”

[xnagennisi]

@traggedia @traggedia​​ asked: Erebus feels the struggle, he...

At the end of the presentation both give pamphlets to the mortals as if they were students from college: We would love you join our Hellenic culture, we are far superior. Please be warned that we will punish you at the slightest offense

they celebrate a good presentation with respectful nods. then they bitch like catty little hens about how every culture after their own has become worse and worse, the way your grandma complains about how things “were better in her day,” except in this case they’re a little bit correct.