(Painting by Hans Baldung Grien, "Death and the Maiden", a painting to bear in mind.)
Listening to him speak was more arousing than being touched by another man, and her stomach clenched...
The Anthropologist: "It's only reinforcing the idea that she's a loser. She spent ages staring at him, willing him to notice her and now, despite her literally humping him, he's not really responding."
"I wanted to dance with you," she said over her shoulder. Bump, bump, slllooow grind. "Is that a crime?"
He didn't hesitate with his answer. "Yes."
"Good. I've always enjoyed breaking the law."
The Anthropologist: "You have an interesting legal system in Budapest. Is this a holdover of the Soviet days?"
A confused pause. Then, "How much did Paris pay you to do this?"
"I get paid? Oh, goodie!"
The Chronicler comes to the conclusion that this woman's narrative voice is exceptionally annoying.
Stepping back, grinning, she brushed her ass against him, arching and swinging as sensually as she was able. Hello, erection.
The Anthropologist: "She's making progress then."
The heat of him nearly liquefied her bones.
Pillywiggin: "Lava heat!"
"What's the currency? Orgasms?"
The Anthropologist: "What is the exchange rate between the dollar and the orgasm?"
Speculation results.
In her dreams, he always grabbed her and meshed the hard length of his cock into her at this point.
The Anthropologist: "That makes her even lamer."
In reality, he jumped backward as if she were a bomb about to detonate, creating more hated distance between them.
The Anthropologist: "If the response to I want to sleep with you, is leaping behind tables, then you're doing something wrong."
Pillywiggin: "Or recoiling like he's a stoic."
A sense of loss immediately blanketed her.
The Chronicler: "Again, the increasing pathetic desperation."
"No touching," he said. He'd probably done his best to sound calm, but he had sounded on edge. Strained.
The Anthropologist: "He's saying this from behind the table, bear in mind."
Her eyes narrowed. All around, people watched their interaction and his rejection of her.
The Anthropologist: "All around, everyone noticed what a loser she is."
They were still pursued by Hunters, humans who foolishly believed they could create a utopia of peace and harmony by ridding the world of the Lords and the demons they carried inside them.
The Chronicler notes that this is a really bad time to be trying to pick guy up in bar.
Ignore them. You're running out of time, chica.
Pillywiggin: "Are you up with the slang?"
The Anthropologist: "I'm up with the Spanish... In fact, I'm subando with the Spanish."
Azrael: "No, that's too foreign."
She ran a fingertip over the top band of her thong, not stopping until she drew the hot focus of his gaze to the glittery angel wings in the center.
The Anthropologist: "ARGH! No! That just makes you seem like a chav!"
Pillywiggin: "Hasn't that been apparent already?"
The Anthropologist: "But that's really tacky!"
"I was just about to walk away," he choked out.
The Anthropologist: "She sounds like the evil slut character... which means we can stop drinking for the I am not a Slut complex.... It's sociologically interesting, but AAAHHHH!"
Azrael: "Do you say that in seminars a lot?"
At his words, her nails elongated into little claws.
The Anthropologist: "Eewww... It sounds uncomfortable. And weird."
She'd shown herself to him, even knowing that the gods would be able to pinpoint her exact location—something it was best to avoid since they planned to snuff her out like a mangy animal. She would not leave this club without a reward.
The Chronicler: "Wait. She's risking almost certain death to shag him?"
Pillywiggin: "It's probably expected from shagging death itself..."
The Chronicler: "And on the sidenote, isn't she very against rape and very for choice of one's sexual partners a moment ago?"
Determination intensifying, she swung around with another roll of her hips, the length of her pale hair caressing his chest. As she nibbled on her bottom lip, she plumped her breasts.
The Anthropologist: "What? Plumping her breasts?"
The Chronicler: "I think she's consciously making them swell."
Azrael: "Isn't that what you do to scatter cushions... it's probably reminding he need to do some housekeeping..."
"But I don't want you to leave," she said with a practiced pout.
The Anthropologist cringed.
"What's wrong, sweetness?" Merciless, she moved forward. "Afraid of a little girl?"
The Chronicler: "Eww!"
Pillywiggin: "A little crazy girl."
The Anthropologist: "A little crazy girl wearing an angel thong!"
His lips thinned, but he didn't reply. Thankfully, he didn't move farther away, either.
Pillywiggin: "Because the walls are in the way."
Azrael: "Also because it wouldn't be stoic."
He was utterly magnificent. Rainbow-colored strobe lights rained down his face and body,
The Chronicler: "Rainbow coloured lights really shouldn't be a selling point... it's like sparkle vampires all over again."
... a body so finely sculpted it could have been chiseled from stone. He wore a black tee and stone-washed jeans, and both hugged rope after rope of hand-over-your-panties muscle. Mine.
Pillywiggin: "Where is the hand-over-your-panties muscle?"
The Anthropologist: "I'm pulling up a human anatomy diagram now..."
Azrael: "Wikipedia won't be able to help you now."
Pillywiggin: "I don't even understand what that could mean."
The Chronicler: "Why is this woman's idea of an in-charge woman comfortable with her sexuality a childish, stalker slut?"
The Anthropologist: "Because Come to Me."
"I'm not touching you, sweetcakes." But I want to…I plan to…I will.
The Anthropologist: "She's a rapist."
"I'll dance with you," another warrior said, cutting her off. Paris again. "No." Anya didn't switch her attention. She wanted Lucien and only Lucien. No one else would do.
Pillywiggin: "Why?"
She recognized the deep timbre of his voice. Sabin, keeper of Doubt.
Cathed: "I have doubt... I think..."
Azrael: "No, it's more like: I have doubt... No, you don't. It's all mine!"
Bait, stupid girls that they were, were all about self-sacrifice; their job was to seduce a Lord to distraction so Hunters could sneak in and slay him. And really, what kind of moron wanted to kill the Lords rather than make out with them a little?
Pillywiggin: "Who would want to... gyah?!"
Cathed remarks that there hasn't been a I am Not a Slut moment yet.
The Anthropologist: "She only wants to sleep with one man. But is really bad at it."
Oh, yes. The plague. One of the Lords was possessed by the demon of Disease. If he touched any mortal skin-to-skin, he infected that person with a terrible sickness that spread and killed with amazing swiftness
Pillywiggin: "They're backplotting at every conceivable moment."
Unfortunately, there were many, many more Hunters out there. Seriously, they were like flies. Swat one away, and two more soon took its place. Even now, they were out there somewhere, waiting for a chance to strike. The Lords had to remain cautious.
The Anthropologist: "Why are they being cautious if they have ridiculous flange powers and are immune to throat cut?"
"Besides, there's no way they could have figured out a way to bypass our security," Reyes added...
The Anthropologist: "Given all of you are having sex all over the party, you probably aren't really paying much attention to security."
"And maybe the big guy and I can go the next few minutes without an interruption. In private." They might have gotten the hint, but they didn't leave.
Pillywiggin: "'Cause our mate doesn't want to shag you!"
Of course, he didn't. But his nostrils did that delicious flare as his eyes followed every movement of her palms
Pillywiggin: "That's missing quite badly. You aimed for hands and got nostrils."
"Pretty please, with a cherry on top of me."
The Anthropologist: "If it turns out she's a virgin, it'd be so hilarious..."
His eyes flickered with fiery provocation. Not her imagination, she realized. Hope flooded her.
The Balance: "Barrack Obama..."
Pillywiggin is in pain.
The Balance: "Maybe she looks like Sarah Palin, but with white hair!"
The Anthropologist: "NOO!"
(The Chronicler regrets that this meme hasn't died yet.)
"Do you not find me desirable, Flowers?"
Cathed and Pillywiggin: "Why does she keep calling him that?"
A muscle ticked below his eye. "That is not my name."
Cathed: "Lucien 'Death' Flowers."
The Anthropologist: "To be fair, 'Death Flowers' is probably quite a scary name to an Aztec."
Alrightie, then. She turned and bent down to the floor. Her skirt rode up her thighs and gave him another, better, glimpse of her blue thong and the wings stretching from the center.
The Anthropologist: "It's not a glimpse. It's right there. It's been there all evening. We're getting bored of it now!"
There is discussion of exactly what's going on there.
As she pushed to a stand, mimicking the motions of sex as she did so, she slowly circled, offering a lingering full-body shot.
The Chronicler: "This woman is not subtle."
Pillywiggin: "Nor anatomically plausible."
"You smell like strawberries and cream." As he spoke, he looked like a predator about to pounce.
The Anthropologist: "You smell like dairy products."
Azrael: "Technically, she smells like a dairy product and a fruit."
"Bet I taste like it, too," she said, batting her lashes despite the fact that he'd made the fragrance seem like a horrendous affront.
The Anthropologist: "So, that's ketosis plus some sort of milky discharge."
There is some discussion about whether or not it's some sort of yeast infection.
He growled low in his throat and took a menacing step toward her. He raised his hand to—grab her? Hit her? Whoa, what was that about?
Azrael (raising a fist): "I hate strawberry and cream!"
...before stopping himself and fisting his fingers. Before remarking on her scent, he'd been distant but maybe-kinda-sorta interested. Now he only seemed interested in throttling her.
Azrael: "He was probably at some point sexually abused by a tea lady at Wimbledon."
Anya ceased moving, staring up at him in openmouthed astonishment. Because she smelled like fruit, he wanted to hurt her?
The Anthropologist: "Make her stop talking like she's a teenager... more how she imagines teenager thinks."
That was—that was supremely…disappointing.
Pillywiggin: "That's some interesting abuse of punctuation."
Azrael: "It's chaotic enough to be within her purview."
Men liked women who threw themselves at them. Right? She'd observed mortals for too many years to count, and that had always seemed to be the case. Key word, chica—mortals. Lucien wasn't, and had never been, mortal.
The Chronicler: "See! She's learning the I am not a Slut complex..."
Why doesn't he want me? In all the days she'd watched him, he hadn't favored a single woman.
Pillywiggin: "He's a personification! Not a sexual being!"
He didn't prefer men. His gaze didn't linger on males with hunger or any hint of softer emotion.
Pillywiggin: "O rly?"
Was he in love with a specific woman, then, and no other would do? If so, the bitch was going down!
Pillywiggin: "'Cause that's endear you."
The Chronicler wonders about the world view where every unattached man is expected to want to and consent to have sex with anything that offers itself.
Thoughts of using "Smother her with your expanding breasts" as Emic Seaweed (the band which the Anthropologist, the Balance and Pillywiggin have formed)'s second album title surface.
Smoke continued to billow through the building, hazy, dreamlike.
Loinfire Club: "It's on fire?"
Lucien hadn't moved an inch; it was as if his entire body were rooted in place. She should give up, walk away, cut her losses before Cronus found her...
The Anthropologist: "Do it! Do it! Do it now!"
Only the weak give up. True. Determined, she raised her chin.
The Loinfire Club groans.
With only a thought, she changed the song blasting through the speakers. The beat instantly slowed, softened...
Cathed: "What is this? A school disco? This is the slow song time?"
Pillywiggin: "Surely the goddess of anarchy can only set songs on shuffle?"
"You're going to dance with me," she purred. "That's the only way to get rid of me." Just to taunt him further, she stood on her tiptoes and gently bit his earlobe.
The Anthropologist: "Just flash him. That's the only thing in your slut repertoire that you haven't done."
There was a rumble in his throat as his arms finally wrapped around her. At first she thought he meant to push her away...
Azrael: "Hasn't he already threatened to punch her?"
Then he jerked her deeper into the curve of his body, flattening her breasts against his torso and forcing her legs to straddle his left thigh...
The Anthropologist: "That must look really awkward. Try to imagine it...."
Slowly, decadently, he swayed her side to side, their bodies staying meshed together, her core rubbing just above his knee.
Pillywiggin: "Is she not in great discomfort?"
Gods in heaven, this was better than she'd imagined...
Pillywiggin: "Did she just swear by herself?"
The Anthropologist (referring to the hero of Cupid's Melody): "At least it's not By the Stones!"
He was big. Everywhere. His shoulders were so wide they dwarfed her; his upper body so muscled it enveloped her...
The Balance: "Eeeccclllurrrp!"
Azrael: "She's now gyrating in his torso."
Pillywiggin: "Gelatinous cube!"
Even if he wanted her the way she wanted him, she couldn't have him. Not fully. In that respect, she was as cursed as he. But she could still enjoy the moment.
Pillywiggin: "Why not?"
His nose nuzzled her jawline.
The Anthropologist: "He's also really, really flexible. As well as being huge."
Pillywiggin: "He is a gelatinous cube."
The Balance: "He's a muscle elemental."
"Just because," she said, inhaling his heady rose perfume
The Anthropologist: "Why does he smell girlier than she does?"
Azrael: "Because he's just better than she is."
Her nipples were still hard, so hard, and rubbing against her corset, enhancing her desire...
The Loinfire Club speculates about whether or not her corset is a proper boned one or not. There is some consensus that it's something else that is probably uncomfortable in real life.
"Do you find it amusing to tease the ugliest man here?"
"Ugliest?" When he appealed to her as no one else ever had? "But I'm nowhere near Paris, sugarpop."
Pillywiggin: "That might be a good thing to say to him, except for the sugarpop part."
The Anthropologist: "If she's an immortal goddess in Hungary, why does she talk like a waitress from Texas?"
The Balance: "Because it's only the demon-trapped-inside-them guys that are from Hungary. She could well be from Texas."
"I know what I am," he growled with the faintest trace of bitterness. "Ugly is being kind."
There is debate over what the hero looks like, since it is becoming abundantly clear that he looks nothing like the man on the cover since he is unscarred.
The Anthropologist: "He looks like he was eating gummi bears at one point and forgot they're stuck to his face."
"If you know what you are, sweetness, then you know you're sexy and deliciously menacing." [...]
He glared down at her. "Menacing? Does that mean you want me to hurt you?"
Pillywiggin (in reference to a line of Edward's in Twilight): "Can I crush your skull?"
His nostrils flared again...
Pillywiggin: "His nostril flares are like everyone else's gazes."
The Anthropologist: "A little light that goes off like a distress signal. He's signalling to his friends across the room..."
Closer…closer…Yes, contact. Oh, great gods! She glided her hands over his chest, luxuriating in the feel of his nipples as they reached for her...
Cathed: "His nipples are reaching for her?!"
The Anthropologist: "I'm sure I've read a Lovecraft..."
...savoring the ropes of strength that greeted her.
The Balance: "But they're strength-roped nipples!"
However he'd gotten the scars could not have been pleasant. He'd suffered. A lot. The knowledge suddenly angered her as much as it entranced her. Who had hurt him and why? A jealous lover?
The Chronicler feels this paragraph speaks for itself as to how dense, obsessive and annoying this goddess of anarchy is.
Looked like someone had taken a blade and carved Lucien up like a melon, then tried to put him back together with the pieces out of order.
Pillywiggin: "Melon..."
The Anthropologist: "He's a melon elemental! Or a melemental!"
Did he have similar scars on the rest of his body? Her knees weakened as a new tide of arousal flooded her. She'd watched him for weeks, but she hadn't gotten a single peek at his delectable form.
Pillywiggin: "Because he doesn't habitually strip for anything..."
Somehow, he'd always managed to bathe and change after she left.
Pillywiggin: "Oh. She's just bad at it."
The Anthropologist: "Can you say 'restraining order'?"
Had he sensed her and kept himself hidden?
The Anthropologist: "When is Chronos going to reappear and kill them all?"
"If I didn't know better, I would think you were Bait, as my men do," he said tightly.
The Chronicler: "If she was, she wouldn't tell you."
If she assured him she wasn't Bait, she would seem to be admitting that she knew what Bait was.
Pillywiggin: "Why can't she say what she is?"
"Do you want me to be?" she said in her most seductive tone. "'Cause I'll be anything you want, lover."
Azrael: "Silly."
The Loinfire Club finds out, at this point, that Azrael ate four bowls of salmon chowder and are horrified.
Pillywiggin: "I ate two and I'm feeling full!"
Azrael: "I have my specialities and in them I excel."
Now, there was a loaded question. She wanted all of his masculinity focused on her. She wanted hours to strip and explore him. She wanted him to strip and explore her. She wanted him to smile at her. She wanted his tongue in her mouth.
Pillywiggin: "The author really hasn't heard of show not tell."
The Anthropologist: "These are not mutually exclusive option! If I can do them at all the same time..."
Azrael: "I can totally revolutionise and streamline my sex life!"
At this point, only the last seemed achievable. And only by playing unfairly. Good thing Devious was her middle name...
Pillywiggin: "Anarchy and deviousness are two different things."
Cathed: "Tickle him!"
Lots of plans are formulated. Mostly to do with cutting his tongue off.
"I'll take a kiss," she said, gazing at his soft, pink mouth.
The Anthropologist: "I'm not sure you want to give me that mental image.... it makes him sound like some sort of FTM transsexual..."
"I need a moment alone with her."
The Anthropologist: "I want a moment alone with her. In this roomful of dancing people, with lesbian sex in the background."
There is talk of the scenes of the Matrix Reloaded with the lesbians making out.
Yes! Except his friends stayed put. Jerks...
The Balance: "She is Sarah Palin. She calls them jerks."
She arched her back, pressing the core of her into his erection. Mmm, erection.
Pillywiggin: "My favourite breakfast."
The Anthropologist: "Really can't imagine how he's bending down to "
His words should have offended her, but she was too caught up in the tide of pleasure that simple embrace elicited to care...
Pillywiggin: "Simple embrace where you're semi-masturbating against his knee."
The Balance is holding his hand in a benediction gesture.
Azrael: "You look like a Greek Orthodox icon."
The Anthropologist: "You're looking like a Teacherite icon."
"Kiss her, Lucien, before I do. Bait or not," Paris called with a laugh. Good-natured as the laugh was, it was still edged with steel.
The Anthropologist: "That doesn't make any sense."
Lucien continued to resist. She could feel his heart beating against his ribs...
The Balance: "...And that is the gospel of the Lord."
Azrael: "Thanks be to the Lord!... Dammit!"
Pillywiggin: "Your years as an altar boy have not been wasted, Balance."
Anya jerked his head down to hers and smashed her lips against his. His mouth instantly opened, and their tongues met in a deep, wet thrust. There was an intense rush of heat through her as the addictive flavor of roses and mint bombarded her.
Azrael (with a bowl of chowder): "Seriously, I'm eating here."
She pressed deeper, needing more of him. All of him. Plumes of fire infused her entire body. She rubbed against his cock, unable to stop herself. He fisted her hair, taking complete control of her mouth.
Pillywiggin: "This woman isn't aware of the other meaning of fisting, is she?"
The Chronicler wonders at the ultra-alpha nature of his kisses despite the fact that Anya is technically the one seducing him.
She'd entered the gates of heaven without taking a single step.
The Anthropologist wants desperately to skim.
His tongue thrust back inside her mouth, their teeth banging together...
The Anthropologist laughs.
Passion and arousal were a hot blaze between them, a raging inferno. Truly, she was on fire...
The Loinfire Club busies itself with the multitude of "fiery" drinks.
"More," he said roughly, palming her breast.
Pillywiggin (in a squeek): "Breasts!"
With one hand, she gripped the hem of his shirt and lifted. With the other, she caressed the ropes of his stomach. Scars. She felt scars and shivered, the jagged tissue wonderfully hot
Pillywiggin: "Liquorice!"
She almost came, his reaction like fuel to an already blazing fire. She did moan.
The Chronicler would be rolling her eyes if she could.
Her eyelids cracked open, and she nearly gasped when she realized they were indeed outside, leaning against the club's exterior in a shadowed corner. He must have flashed them there, the naughty boy. He was the only Lord capable of transporting himself from one location to another with only a thought. A skill she possessed, as well. She only wished he'd flashed them to a bedroom.
Pillywiggin: "This is not the time for exposition."
He raised his darkly haloed head, blue and brown irises intense, before pinning her with another scorching kiss. On and on it continued, until she was willingly, blissfully drowning in him. Branded to her very soul, where she was no longer Anya but Lucien's woman. Lucien's slave.
The Chronicler: "So much for being in control."
No, there would be no flashing, she realized with disappointment...
Cathed: "No flashing for me..."
She wasn't wearing a bra, so the hardened pink tips of her nipples were visible, two little beacons in the night.
There is much laughter and some confusion over what is happening with her breasts since they were previously encased in her corset (made clear with chaffage) but now they're beaconing...
The Balance: "Maybe it was an underbust and her nipples were drooping."
The Chronicler: "She could mean a corset-style top?"
Pillywiggin (pointing at the Anthropologist's glass of smoothie): "Look at that swollen purple shaft of drink!"
Poor, tortured Reyes, keeper of Pain. He liked to cut himself. Once, she'd even seen him jump from the top of the warriors' fortress and luxuriate in the feel of his broken bones.
The Loinfire Club giggles.
"You don't really want him," Reyes said. "We all know that. So tell us what you do want before we force you to tell us."
The Chronicler: "Unpleasant thing to say about your friend."
Lucien stepped in front of her, blocking her from the men. Was he…protecting her? How utterly sweet. Unnecessary, but sweet. Some of her anger evaporated. She wanted to hug him.
"Leave her alone," Lucien said. "She doesn't matter. She's unimportant."
[...]
A red haze winked over her vision. This must be how my mother always felt. Nearly all the men Dysnomia had taken to bed had hurled insults at the woman when their pleasure had been sated. Easy, they'd said. Not good for anything else.
Cathed (muttered): "Dysnomia?"
(The Chronicler: "Really minor goddess. Daughter of Eris. Not sure why she's seen as an uber-slut here, though. Odd that the author re-imagines her as being hated for being a slut instead of an actual spirit of lawlessness and opposition to civil order.")
Anya knew her mother well, knew Dysnomia had been slave to her lawless nature, as well as simply looking for love. Mated gods, single gods, it hadn't mattered. If they had desired her, she had given herself to them.
Pillywiggin: "Don't backstory in the middle of the scene."
Cathed: "More importantly, don't backstory in the middle of a sex scene."
Pillywiggin: "He thrust in her and that reminded her of the time when she was seven..."
Of all the things she'd expected and yearned for him to say, unimportant hadn't been close. She's mine, maybe. I need her, perhaps. Don't touch my property, definitely.
(The Chronicler: "She'd rather he claim she's his property than be unimportant? From her point of view, she's just some random chick who's humped his leg recently. If she's more meaningful to him, it'd just be weird.")
Azrael (referring to the Balance's style of reading): "I'm sure romance novels delivered at that speed is akin to assault.... I'm going have a lie down."
The Balance is going faster.
Pillywiggin: "He's speaking in tongues! The Holy Spirit is Among Us!"
"You have been following me. I recognized your scent." Strawberries and cream, he'd said earlier, accusation in his voice. Her eyes widened. Pleasure and mortification blended, spearing her all the way to the bone. All along, he'd known she was watching him.
Pillywiggin: "She sucks."
"Why did I get the third degree if you knew who I was? And why, if you knew I was following you, didn't you ask me to show myself?"
The Anthropologist: "Because I wanted an excuse to not take fucking showers."
"Well, no." Much as it would have saved her pride, she suddenly realized she didn't want him thinking she gave her kisses away so easily. "Not yet."
The Chronicler: "You were humping him a moment ago... She's learning to not be a slut..."
She pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth, her frustration renewed.
The Anthropologist: "Do many people do that when they're frustrated?"
Revulsion? He should be grateful! Hadn't she liberated him from the curse that had forced him to stab his BFF every night?
The Balance: "They use BFF!!"
Pillywiggin: "God! Kill me.... I need a lie down."
Azrael: "You can have the rug. I think I've recovered."
The Anthropologist: "We're lying down on the floor in shifts now, are we?"
The Balance: "About the BFF..."
Yes, damn it. She had. But his look was one she knew well, and one that never failed to raise her hackles. [...]
Because of her mother's amorous past and the widespread expectation that she, with her free-spirited ways, would follow suit, every Greek god in Olympus had projected that same sort of revulsion at her at one time or another. At first, Anya had been hurt by their smug disdain. And for several hundred years, she'd tried the good-girl thing: dressing like a freaking nun, speaking only when spoken to, keeping her gaze downcast. Somehow she'd even squelched her desperate need for disaster. All to earn the respect of beings who would never see her as anything more than a whore.
The Anthropologist: "Is this leading up to an I am not a Slut?"
The Chronicler: "Almost certainly."
One fateful day, when she'd come home from stupid goddess training...
Pillywiggin: "What?"
The Chronicler: "It's training to become a stupid goddess."
Pillywiggin: "1 + 1 = cock!"
...crying because she'd smiled at Ares and that bitch Artemis had called her ta ma de...
Cathed: "The canonical goddesses and gods are being mean to her!"
(The Chronicler wonders what that means. All that google can come up with is the Mandarin – literally meaning 'of his/her mother', a sort of equivalent of 'dammit!' – and that's just weird, since these are classical deities and it's not a direct insult. Unless there's some Roman or Greek equivalent that's eluding google...)
Dysnomia had pulled her aside. Whatever you do, however you act, they are going to judge you harshly, the goddess had said. But we all must be true to our own nature. Acting as anyone other than yourself merely brings you pain and makes you appear ashamed of who and what you are.
The Chronicler: "She'll soon discover her true self isn't a slut..."
Others will feed off that shame, and soon it will be all that you are. You are a wonderful being, Anya. Be proud of who you are. I am.
The Chronicler: "Exactly why is she proud of Anya living a lie and against her anarchic instincts?"
From then on, Anya had dressed as sexily as she pleased, talked whenever and however she wanted and refused to look at her feet for any reason other than admiring her strappy stilettos. No longer had she denied her need for disorder.
Pillywiggin: "Strappy stilettos aren't very disorderly."
The Chronicler: "Surely dressing comfortably and happily would be more anarchic? Instead of conforming to other people's ideas of sexy and attractive? Why is this author fudging the ideas of anarchy/disorderliness with sexiness?"
"You are the daughter of Dysnomia," Reyes continued. "You are the minor goddess of Anarchy."
Pillywiggin: "She probably knows this already."
The Balance: "But we might have forgotten."
She would never be ashamed again.
The Chronicler: "Except for just now."
"There's nothing minor about me." Minor meant unimportant, and she was just as important as the other, "higher" beings, damn it.
The Chronicler: "No, minor usually means 'not having many worshippers' and 'not being quite as powerful,' both of which can be quantitively measured."
But because no one knew who her father was—well, she did, now—she had been relegated as such.
The Chronicler: "You've never read any classical mythology, right? And it's no surprise that her father's Chronos, so stop hiding it."
The Chronicler: "Wait. Just a minute. She's of the Olympian pantheon. The ones who have sex in every conceivable form..."
Pillywiggin: "And some unconceivable...."
Cathed: "Golden shower of light!"
The Anthropologist: "But she wears a thong with angel wings on it."
The Chronicler: "That is really slutty."
Irritation flickered in his dark eyes, but he continued calmly. "As I told you, since your appearance weeks ago I have been researching you, learning everything I can. Long ago, you were imprisoned for murdering an innocent man. Then, a hundred years or so after your confinement, the gods finally agreed on the proper punishment for you. Before they could carry out the verdict, however, you did something no other immortal had ever managed to do. You escaped."
The Balance: "He's backstorying again..."
She didn't try to deny it. "Your research is correct." For the most part.
Pillywiggin: "I'm glad I keep my own wiki entry up to date."
"Guards were placed in every corner to fortify security, as the gods feared the strength of the prison depended on the strength of its keeper. Over time the walls did begin to crumble and crack, which eventually led to the escape of the Titans."
Gonna blame that on her, was he? Her eyes narrowed.
"The thing about legends," she said flatly, "is that the truth is often distorted to explain the things that mortals cannot understand."
The Balance: "But they're immortals... so they should be able to understand it."
"You hid here, among humans," Reyes said, ignoring her. Again. "But you weren't content to live in peace even then."
Pillywiggin: "Personification of a concept!"
"You started wars, stole weapons and even ships."
Cathed (gasping): "Even ships!"
Pillywiggin: "She's a shipper!"
There is much gasping.
The Anthropologist: "Maybe it's like being a cattle rustler in a Western?"
"...You caused major fires and others disasters, which in turn led to mass panic and rioting among the humans, and hundreds of people being imprisoned."
Pillywiggin: "Anarchy. Was in the job description."
Warmth suffused her face. Yes, she'd done those things.
The Anthropologist: "Why is she ashamed?"
The Balance: "Maybe it's a good sort of warmth. Like a warm and fuzzy feeling.... oh, no..."
...she'd first come to earth, she hadn't known how to control her rebellious nature. Gods had been able to protect themselves from it, humans hadn't. Besides that, she'd been almost…feral from her years in prison.
The Anthropologist: "What tells me that she's going spend rest of book angsting about that, isn't she?"
A simple comment from her—you aren't going to let your brother talk to you like that, are you?—and bloody feuds erupted...
The Chronicler: "That's not how feuds work. It's about not letting other people talk to your brother like that. Feuds don't tend to happen within families; they happen between families."
An appearance at court—perhaps laughing at the rulers and their policies—and loyal knights attempted to assassinate their king.
The Chronicler: "So she's single-handedly responsible for all feuds, assassinations and disorder everywhere? And what exactly is her opinion of Iceland's political structure with its systematised feuding?"
Eventually she'd learned that if she fed her need for disorder with little things—petty theft, white lies and the occasional street fight—huge disasters could be averted...
Pillywiggin: "But it's her nature!"
The Chronicler: "So none of the civil wars right now are her fault? By this logic the world should be more orderly now and...well..."
There is some defending of the concept – though not the execution. The Loinfire Club is quite fond of a shit-stirring goddess, however Anya is really getting on our collective nerves.
"I did my homework on you, too," she said softly. "Did you not once destroy cities and kill innocents?" Now Reyes blushed.
The Chronicler: "Honestly!"
Cronus, who had taken over the heavenly throne mere months ago, bringing new rules, new desires and new punishments, was about to arrive... As a bright blue light appeared in front of her, chasing away the darkness and humming with unimaginable power, she flashed away. With a sense of regret she had no business feeling, she left Lucien behind—taking the taste and memory of their kiss with her.
Pillywiggin: "Thank GOD the chapter's over!"
Pillywiggin: "I have brain indigestion... The Loinfire Club has pain."
The Chronicler: "On the bright side, not much to write up."
Pillywiggin: "Only because it's so horribly hard to get through... There's just so much wrong..."
The Anthropologist: "But no incestuous overtones on p. 2!"
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