Nicholas
Dominating the skyline of Athena's Academia is the Ivory Tower, a majestic structure that serves as the central seat of learning and wisdom. The tower houses the Grand Library of Athena, containing an unparalleled collection of scrolls, tomes, and divine knowledge. Scholars and gods alike converge here to engage in intellectual pursuits, research, and contemplation.
Melvin
Here, at one of the city's looming peaks, they would meet. For a man who never knew comfortability, he found an unsaid value in routine. It was his, and it was hers. When she was in his proximity, it could be felt in spirit alone. A weight pressed on the brawn of his shoulders like the earth— so, so heavy, yet the air felt clearer when she was around. The materials of his soul were surely forged in a similar way as hers, entwined in a knot that could not be undone. He would have to be lacerated to slither from her grasp, snipped like a cord.
⠀
Niklas was not accustomed to an interpersonal depth of this magnitude. He was not entirely unattached; with such years of life beneath his belt, he had known fellowship and short–term lust. However, it had all been far too fleeting. There are his pledged loyalties scattered among Europe, men that think of Niklas respectfully, but they know too little. None knew his secrets, and never did he feel an inclination to shout them away. In the presence of Nemesis, it felt possible. No, he would not say them, not so soon— but it felt feasible, in a world that was improbable. There was no need for him to stand in the dark, for he could look further into the shadows and see her standing there, as well.
⠀
He preferred the tower this way, illuminated by moonlight. Below, cramped buildings twinkled with incandescent lighting and took the place of gleaming stars. The openness of the tower let in the wind of the night, and it fell through the short strands of his hair. Mountains, so distant from this puzzling metropolis, were blackened outlines in his sight. He was alone. The tower was hushed, but he knew of her absence only by the looseness of his muscles. The goddess had not yet arrived, with both her beauty and her complications.
⠀

Niklas stood nearest to an array of bookshelves, suspiciously faultless in their arrangement. It was as though they were less for use and more for decoration. Still, he could see that they were not ridden with dust or the touch of age. The man was not yet comfortable enough to pluck one from the shelves and file through its pages. A part of him wanted to. He navigated the room with the stance of a weary, unloved dog. As a boy, he would have scuffed the polished floors with mud–caked boots and found a book. War history, perhaps. A book on periods of art, so that he could better his abilities and show them to his brother, who eyed Niklas's sketches in awe.
⠀
Niklas was no boy, and he had no brother. His boots were several sizes larger, and just a tad cleaner. In the absence of the sun, he wore a cloak that stopped below his knees, and one of his hands was grazing over the faces of loose coins in his pocket. If he could choose a book now, he would not know what he would lean towards. War was less history now, for it was a presence in his life. He felt restless in the thought of reading about lovelier things. He was unsure what that would entail.
⠀
A step was taken, and the floor creaked with it. When he moved, however, the tower shifted in vitality. There was something more than himself here, now. It was her.
⠀
Niklas did not know what to expect from her, but he felt a wavering safety. He believed that she had no desire to harm him, but she had the capacity for it. If he was a fool, he might say the same of himself. That was a brawl that he would not win. She could disarm him and pluck the sutures from his mind to allow herself a peek. She could do this, and he would kneel in her glory.
⠀
He turned, and awaited the visibility of her face. A strand of his hair fell from its place, just at his brow bone. He let out a soundless sigh, and the moon caused his face to glow blue.
David
──────────────────── ❝ *Vengeance is mine . . . * ❞ ────────────────────
SETTING﹕Library, tower afterhours.
PINGS﹕ 
NOTES﹕ We are so back (Tipsy's version).
──────────────────── ❝ *And I will repay.*❞ ────────────────────

Nemesis lingered in the veil of shadows, her essence woven into the fabric of the dimly lit room where Niklas stood, a solitary figure among the meticulously arranged bookshelves. Her hand rested casually on the hilt of a dagger behind her back, an artifact of divine craftsmanship gifted to her by Hephaestus himself. This was no ordinary blade; it was a masterpiece wrought from celestial fires and cooled in the tears of the Fates. The dagger's edge was a sliver of the night sky, a slice of darkness honed to an impossible sharpness, while its handle bore the intricate designs of ancient sigils, pulsing with a light that seemed to encapsulate the essence of stars. An unthinkable blade for an unimaginable man, but she was going to hold off on her gift for a bit.

Until he passed a test of hers.

The room seemed like a stage set for a play that had long since forgotten its script. She observed him closely, noting the way he lingered on the spines of the books, symbols of knowledge and history untouched. Yet, there was a hesitation in his movements, a reluctance to reach out and bridge the gap between curiosity and the tangible weight of the tomes. She didn't understand what led to the indecision, rather she felt like she could. It mirrored her own reservations concerning the mortal realm, a place where her ethereal nature often felt at odds with the corporeal world. Despite blending in physically, she spoke differently. Her tone carried a solemn nature she was not able to find in replication among her godly peers.

Immortality did not grant assimilation.

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As he turned to her in the heart of spectral shadows, Nemesis stepped forward, materializing with the elegance of nightfall's embrace.

**"Champion."**

Brown eyes met his with an intensity that bridged worlds, a silent acknowledgment of the path they ventured on together. She paused for a moment, taking in his glow. Moonlight adorned his features, but she smoothly shifted her focus to a nearby bookcase, clearing her throat to distract herself from thinking about the strand of hair dangling in front of his face.

Luck was in her favor; an idea spurred.

**"Pick out the first book you remember the title of in this room and tell me why."**

Her voice resonated, not as sound, but as a commanding vibration felt in the soul. Leaning against the wall behind her, Nemesis watched with an unfathomable calm, already awaiting the results of the task she had set before him.
Melvin
The sight of her caused him to swallow. He could see her, now, and the tenuous twitch of his eye persisted as if she was a stranger. Niklas knew so little of her, yet he felt sure that their convictions must be the same. The nightly shadows became a veil, nearly as dark as her hair. It enveloped her with the impression of a blackened mist, and if he had been untaught, he would surely believe that she was a witch. An enchantress, perhaps— but her hand, fastened behind her back, convinced him that she was more–so a reaper. With blood that was a fraction holy, his was only spilt in lethal endeavors. Within him, he knew that she could spill quarts of it with ease. To be her champion would be a bounty that he had yet to unwrap.
⠀
Her youth was irreversible and convincing. The moon did not cast much light to her eyes, and they appeared black and big, watchful of his figure. He could name four–legged beasts with a gaze that was not as famished. The absence of his name from her lips did not sway him, attuned to her hand–picked detachments. He felt no sentiment to his name, and to be without one was to be a man born anew. If he was not born Niklas Bruhl, then he would not be here, standing before her trial. There was greatness in a name, more to interpret than he knew.
⠀
It was ever a strenuous task to part from her gaze, and as she observed him, he did the same. His posture unknowingly improved in her company, and he became capable of glancing elsewhere once she did the same. Lips were pressed into a stony line, and a push of the wind allowed the end of his cloak to steadily sway. Niklas could not deduce her propositions or crooked questions, and he did not yet work to do so.
⠀

Her words did not end in a question, and her stance communicated to him that she would sit in the quiet for an answer. His lips parted, ambivalent of the request and its revelation. The man would infrequently question if he could fail, but her return was the confirmation of success. He began to nod, though it melded into the turning of his body, angled toward well–preserved books. If she was cloaked in a blindfold of silk and demanded his same tasks, would her hand brush his own, reaching for the same pages? The probabilities were starkly low, but he could not say that it felt inconceivable.
⠀
"Antigone."
⠀
He spoke it before he had found it, but its placement on the shelves had, mercifully, been reconstructed in his mind. The charge of his voice replicated hers. On a tall shelf that came an inch above his shoulders, he took the play from where it sat. Its spine was creased, which indicated that it had been well–read despite how it hid in higher spaces. The cover was a smoky black, adorned with an image of a cloaked woman. He did not open it, and he did not turn it on its back.
⠀
"A man that I knew owned many books. I have read Antigone more than once." His thumb ghosted the cover, underlining the title. Niklas clasped it as though it was a gift. His gaze returned to her, acclimated to the dark. The tragedy, entwined in the law of gods and the grievance of family, became a narrative that he cherished for its relatability. Niklas knew that it was written as a staple of storytelling rather than a narrative of empathy, yet it felt curated for him. There were great comforts swathed in tales of loss.
⠀
Longing for her response, he spoke quieter and from memory. "'It is the dead, not the living, who make the longest demands.'"
David
──────────────────── ❝ *Vengeance is mine . . . * ❞ ────────────────────
SETTING﹕Library, tower afterhours.
PINGS﹕ 
NOTES﹕ We are so in needing of therapy (Trauma's version)!
──────────────────── ❝ *And I will repay.*❞ ────────────────────

In the purest of senses, she enjoyed watching him. Subtle movements dictated buried stories, far denser than the tomes surrounding them. He processed her queries and tasks with nuanced facial twitches that held more weight than the cosmos could conjure.

Niklas, for all his stoic resolve, remained oblivious to the depth of his influence. He moved with a purpose that was both innate and honed by the vicissitudes of fate, his every action a testament to an unwritten code governing his path. The way he straightened before her, a muted but potent acknowledgment of her presence, spoke volumes of his innate respect for forces greater than himself. Yet, it was tempered by an unyielding spirit that refused to bow.

The faintest semblance of a smile that graced Nemesis's ethereal features was as rare as it was fleeting, a celestial event witnessed by few. It was not born of amusement but of admiration, a recognition of the extraordinary resilience dwelling within this mortal coil. In Niklas, she saw not just a champion but a kindred spirit, one who walked the tightrope between order and chaos with the grace of a seasoned acrobat. In the emptiness of immortality, the din lessened in his vicinity.

"Antigone."

*Antigone?*

——————————————————————

She pondered his response; the flicker of curiosity caused her to lean forward. A tale steeped in defiance, duty, and the inexorable march of divine justice resonated with her in ways that transcended the mere words of the ancient play. As he continued, her brows, the arches framing the windows to her soul, drew together ever so slightly, not in disapproval but in contemplation. It was as if his words were a key turning in the lock of her own memories, opening vaults of reflection upon her banishment and the relentless pursuit of her own form of justice. The goddess couldn't help but draw parallels between the thematic essence of Antigone's plight and her exile from the underworld. 

Her banishment, a consequence of celestial machinations and the intricate dance of power among the gods, mirrored Antigone's ostracization for defying the edicts of the king in favor of familial duty and divine law. Both were tales of resilience in the face of irrevocable decrees, of the solitary fight against the tides of destiny that sought to sweep them into the annals of the forgotten. 

Amidst these internal reflections, Nemesis remained acutely aware of Niklas's ignorance of her past, but the serendipitous nature of his choice was impossible to ignore.

**"A man, though wise, should never be ashamed of learning more and must unbend his mind."**

Quoting a line from the book, her voice filled the space between them, a gentle reminder of the wisdom that lay in openness and the pursuit of knowledge. The line she chose served not just as a response but as a bridge to connect them.

——————————————————————

**"In your choice, I see a reflection of your own journey, a testament to the battles you've fought, both within and without."**

She peeled away from the wall, the shadows reluctantly parting as she bridged the physical distance between them. Her movement was fluid, a dance of light and shadow, as she approached with the divine dagger in hand.

** "My pursuit of this has labeled me a traitor to a home I can never return to... Justice, like knowledge, *Demands sacrifice.*"**

Though her tone did not waver, a momentary glance past him hinted at a reminiscence of a realm now as distant as the memories it held. Her gaze, returning to Niklas, was steady, yet the softness in her eyes betrayed a hint of melancholy for a dominion forsaken in the name of a higher calling.

**"But even in exile, the quest for balance remains undiminished."**

Guarded, her stare quickly shed any sliver of vulnerability. He didn't need to see that. This was not the time.

**"*Will you kneel before me to accept my gift?*"**

Her voice dropped several octaves, with the dagger now presented in both palms of her hands for full display.

||
Melvin
As if the book was spread open before her eyes and subjected to recitation, she spoke, and in this alone did he believe that her test was passed. Her voice, hardy like metal, lingered between the great space like smoke. It filled him, and held a potency greater than the graying puffs from cigarettes, smoked aplenty in nights of a bitter, defiant youth. The text still sat in large palms, and he considered taking it home, searching its words until he crossed the line she had chosen. It felt purposive, as did all things with her. Niklas thought of his mind, and the many contents that lingered there. Pummeled and aged, soiled by the premature loss of hope.
⠀
There was much to learn from her, and as he trailed behind her black flame of counsel, he accepted that it must die in due course. She would steer him to truth, and he would fearlessly look to what yearned for him. Nemesis would persist in her immortalized state, without decay or flaw, and his blood would soon run cold. Had there been champions before him, paving his passageway with their bones? Was he kindred to fallen heroes, lionhearted and blessed with fortune? There was no Greek epic that wrote with accuracy to his pain, undying and hardened.
⠀
The silence was surely weighted with his closeted skeletons, for she continued and looked within. At last, that looming mist that served as a morose halo departed from her temples. Niklas was unsettled by the exposure of himself, as if his soul was made of translucent fabric. Somehow, in this unease, the stillness of quietude coexisted. She spoke with a detached intimacy that exposed him, and he succumbed to acceptance. With the diminishment of width from her, that mass on his shoulders exceeded. The winds that tousled his hair and chilled his heels went still, as if she could redefine the elements.
⠀

A traitor?
⠀
It would be an undisclosed secret, he decided. Her disclosure in him casted a warmth to his eyes, lifting the overcast that came when he was assessed. The warmth was betrayed, however, by her confession— even the gods were not free of affliction, wielded by her equals. Niklas had been mugged of a home before he had ever reached maturity, swindled of tender sentiment. The word held loose meaning, shrouded by thick fog and unattainable memories. He knew not of the tethers that accompanied exile, but he had been shackled by all that he had seen, all that he would not see. When in Germany, he could no longer walk the streets that he had walked in boyhood. He could not bear it.
⠀
By the power of her candor, he was unbridled. Their eyes met, and he felt that he was peering into reflective glass that showed only himself. A moment so precious could not go on for long, and she hardened. Now, there was a gift to take, a contribution to their trek ahead.
⠀

In his hands, he held a story. In hers was the instrument that would transcribe his own, and the sight of it alone demanded surrender. Niklas looked to her only once, and slowly, he knelt. It was not inherently a powerless submission, but a humble acceptance of her divinity. His knees met frigid floors, and the book was placed by his side. The moon enhanced the otherworldly structure of the dagger with an ominous glow, and it called to him. He looked to its tip, as if it pined for the blood of the unpunished.
⠀
"I will learn from all that you show me."
⠀
It was a vow, a preexisting understanding of their bond. Yet, he was compelled to reaffirm his belief, looking to her. For a man so mighty in stature, she was greater than he could ever be.
⠀
Niklas held his palms outward, waiting. He would only take what she handed him. His gaze to her was tempted to waver, and he held his breath.
⠀
"Thank you."
⠀
It was remarkably human, and in two words alone did he reciprocate her gone vulnerability. His appreciation pushed his head down honorably— hands open for what she had to give, eyes cast virtuously downward.
David
──────────────────── ❝ *Vengeance is mine . . . * ❞ ────────────────────
SETTING﹕ Library, tower after hours.
PINGS﹕ 
NOTES﹕ After a million years later. Door 2 with a closer for us. Thank you for your patience. I passed out last night and then further again today on my keyboard for a solid 30 minutes. 
──────────────────── ❝ *And I will repay.*❞ ────────────────────

Beneath a sky veiled by the inky depths of night, where distant stars held court in silent majesty, Nemesis stood beside Niklas. Her presence served as both a beacon and a bastion against the unseen forces that conspired against them. Casting elongated shadows across the terrain, her figure blended seamlessly with the encompassing darkness, shrouded in an aura of ancient power. She observed her champion with profound understanding, recognizing both the sacrifices he had made and his relentless pursuit of justice and truth.

Timeless and knowing, her gaze reflected deep appreciation for the trials he had weathered and the strength he had mustered in the face of relentless adversities. She felt the significance of the burdens he carried, empathizing deeply as she too had traversed paths steeped in solitude and sacrifice.

**"Crafted by the masterful hands of Hephaestus himself, this blade...**

She began, her voice resonating with a solemnity that seemed to echo the very tales of fate.

 **"-Is a symbol of the path you have chosen—a path I have watched you tread with unwavering determination and commendable bravery."**

For a moment, she paused, the weight of her words to settling in the cool night air. The dagger, caught in the moonlight, gleamed ominously yet invitingly as she extended it toward her towering champion. Her expression was solemn, imbued with a mix of reverence and concern.

——————————————————————

**"With my name attached to yours, the enemies you will face will be far greater than you can imagine. Your valor and strength will be tested not just by the mortal coils of fate but by the tendrils of enmity that reach for me. Wield it wise and well." ** 

She instructed, emphasizing the gravity of the power he now held. When Niklas accepted the dagger, Nemesis's hand lingered on his for a moment longer than necessary, a muted acknowledgment of their shared bond and her commitment to his cause. Intricately linked now, not just by fate but by the very weapons they wielded, the daggers were more than mere steel—they were a conduit of their combined will, a means for the goddess to reach across the bounds of space and time to aid him when he needed her most.

**"They will see you as a path to my undoing." **

Etched as a traitor in the Underworld's tapestry, she contemplated the potential targets that might strike at him as a means to reach her. The familiarity she held for him, the innate comfort she found in the quiet spaces they shared—he needed to be prepared. 

Yet, as she watched him grasp the dagger, the Goddess of Retribution was struck by an unusual protectiveness, a feeling that was both foreign and unsettling. This transcended the typical duties of a mentor to a scholar, tapping into something deeper, more visceral. It confused her, this stirring of almost maternal instinct, so rare and powerful within the heart of a goddess who had long balanced the scales of justice with a stern hand rather than a gentle touch.

Why did this man—this brave, determined soul—invoke such a fierce desire to shield from harm? Her existence had been marked by the enforcement of divine law, not the nurturing of individuals. Yet here she stood, mentally preparing not just to guide the demi-god but to defend him, to stand by his side against adversaries both seen and unseen.

——————————————————————
Her tone softened to a whisper, barely audible above the delicate rustle of the night breeze.

**"When the shadows grow long and the enemies draw near, look to them not in fear but with conviction. My spirit is intertwined with the blade you now hold. Think of me, and *I will be there.*"**

As Nemesis's form began to dissolve into the wafting breeze, a final resolve set in her ethereal eyes. Silently, she committed to a decisive act to ensure his safety—an impending meeting with Poseidon himself, a strategic maneuver deemed necessary amid the complex weave of godly politics and power plays.

In the profound silence that followed, Niklas stood alone, fortified by the weight of the dagger in his hand and the promise of the goddess's support. The night enveloped around him, not as a threat but as a cloak of potential, ready to face whatever darkness lay ahead, buoyed by the knowledge that he would never stand alone. Their fates forever intertwined through the bond of their blades and the evocation of ultimate justice.