Description
"Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we burn up the tragedy to pen it with the ink of poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful, it was just red and gross and wretched of the dead souls of the once brave warriors." Draped in an armour graved with blood is Aphrodite, standing tall in the battlefield is her dignity and sanity. All her life this is what she has dreamt of, the end of the war that swallowed more than just the half of the living. But clinging to her heart is hope and love from the sacred priest who had lost his mind in a turn of events that inked his holy tunic. Aeolus. Shredding hope and sparring deities, you'll find wine spilling from Dionysus's chalice and so will shame fly up in the skies when the most delirious of beings will lock horns. The holy but flawed Deities and the very breed of class that had hope but distraught in their veins, the Mortals.
PROLOGUE
