Lisa
In the northern half of the city of Olympian, there was a small grouping of groves and trees technically under Pan's purview. They were wild remnants of the city from before true development... But in truth, they were held in sway most of the year by the North Wind. Frozen, dusted in snow, and abandoned, just the sort of place that Boreas seemed to enjoy creating, or so it seemed to most of the world. They were well known to be his favorite place to walk or disappear when he was rarely in the city itself, however, they had been completely unseen by him for a long time, considering that he'd forsaken the city for years and years by current date. Perhaps that was why a certain group had decided to chance their luck.

Snow silently drifted down on a clearing within the grove. The tall pine trees around it had their boughs heavily laden with the stuff, but the ground itself was underneath tons of undisturbed snowdrifts. Sun hidden behind the overcast sky, everything looked exactly like a winter wonderland, perfect for snowmen or angels or a snowball fight, if it weren't for the complete lack of people... And a singular flower. One flower was suddenly pushing its way out of the snow, a lilac of bright white and purple streaks, the pistil extending laden with bright yellow pollen. There was a breeze, the pollen drifting from the flower and landing on the snow...

Underneath them, the snow quickly began to melt, as it if were under the direct sight of the sun. At the same time, from underneath the melting snow, grass grew up into view and began spreading the same hot disease across the clearing. The temperature across the clearing began to rise... And rise and rise until it was finally a comfortable 75 degrees Fahrenheit. Flowers had bloomed, the boughs of the trees were sloughing off the excess snow, bushes had suddenly grown where there were nothing, and suddenly, there were people. Stepping from the grass and from the trees, nymphs and dryads laughed. Some twenty of them had gathered here in this wild patch of grove, claimed by Old Winter eternally, and yet now rebelling against his will. They were here to party, to retake that which was there, and drive that old barbarian from their trees and new home with that which he hated.

Music started to play. "WHAT DOES THE FOX SAY!?" Incredibly obnoxious music, that was absolutely designed to piss someone off as well as provide a decent beat to dance to, which the nymphs absolutely seemed to have already gotten around to doing. People had already paired up, sometimes three or four of them, as one guy climbed up on a tree and yelled, "Let's fucking party!" Before falling back into a snowdrift. In the distance, a group of other nymphs were working together to haul kegs, coolers, and fold out tables into the clearing as the rest of everyone else began the party in focus.

And from the top of one tree, a raven sat, watching the whole thing unfold. Before its wings unfurled, and it took to the sky, heading toward the north.
Henry
In the small clearing deep within the forest was a party of magical proportions. Under the canopy of ancient, snow-dusted trees and the shade they provided, the moonlight filtered through barren branches, casting a silvery glow on the scene below. Twinkling fairy lights were strung between trees and added a touch of whimsical enchantment, while dryads and other spirits danced jovially around in threes.

Trails of shimmering iridescence were left in their wake as they pranced and frolicked, their light and melodious laughter mingling with the gentle crunch of cold, frost-covered soil beneath their feet. The hoot of an owl emanated hauntingly from the darkness of a mass of tangled branches which cast dark shadows - like tendrils - interconnected in a web of chilling shapes upon them.

In the centre of the unruly gathering stood a beautiful, youthful male, dispossessed of the ability to speak, with an air of bewildered fascination about him. Wrapped in a cloak of deep purple, his bright, violet eyes contrasted against the frozen white surroundings, which was slowly melting by the second. Peeling back to reveal the earthy browns of mud and leaves below its frigid shield, the phenomenon was otherwise irrelevant to the figure in question, who had unknowingly consumed a dangerous concoction earlier on.

The pesky dryads and their nymph friends had lured him to their party with promises of warmth, hedonism, and revelry. What he thought was a goblet of wine had been infused with enchanted herbs and sweet nectar to conceal the taste of whatever substance or otherworldly magic bent his mind and made him so dazed and complacent to their maddening ways. Shortly after drinking it, the potion had taken effect, clouding his judgement and dulling his desire to leave the clearing completely.

*"Stay with us, Hyacinthus..."* One nymph whispered, her voice as soft as the snow that covered the treetops above. 

*"It's far too dangerous for a sweet boy like you out there..."* Whispered a handsome satyr, whose calloused fingers lifted the male's chin as he looked upon him with fancy and ill intent in his eyes.

The creatures circled him, creating a soft breeze that stirred the snow. The rhythmic vibrations of the obnoxious music soon became no more than a low, thrumming bass as they sang ancient songs of the forest, their tune weaving a spell of dizzying allure. Hyacinthus tried to resist as his mind struggled against the effects of their poison, his limbs heavy as his willpower faded with every beat.

The naive god could only watch in a dreamlike trance as the dryads celebrated around him, creating a false sense of timelessness there, as if the world beyond the trees had ceased to exist. Their joy was infectious, their words mesmerising, and despite his desire to resist, he found himself smiling, his heart slowly succumbing to the magic of the night. 

Under the watchful eye of the raven that sat perched on a branch above them, the god nodded in a state of dazed compliance, his slight arms lifted by the hands of strong satyrs, his skin touched and stroked by their roaming fingers and moans. In his face there was terror, a blushing heat soothed by the cool sensation of tears that streamed from his violet eyes. 

He had wanted to forget his life and trusted them to make it so. 

A flower in a meadow, compelled to grow high, yet stunted by the shadow of weeds.
Lisa
A smile spread across his handsome face. The largest satyr of the group couldn't believe that his plan had worked out so well! He had kept his eye on Hyacinthus for days now, having originally noticed him at a party that had gone late at night, playing spin the bottle with a bunch of others. In a moment, the satyr had been smitten, and the only thoughts he'd been able to have for days were about just what it would feel like to run his hand across the god's chest, to feel his lips on a god's, to grip his fingers around those hips that gained enough notice from Apollo to propel a mere fucking mortal from the path to the grave onto the pedestal of divinity. It was like the satyr's every wish had been boiled down and put into a single individual...

Someone with a fantastic body, a fantastic face, and an easily overpowered, inexperienced god. Finally, finally! He was going to be able to lay with a god outside of Pan's influence... Ugh, fantastic!

It hadn't taken much persuading at all, once he'd figured out a semblance of a plan, to actually start putting it together. He'd only needed to reach out to a few of his own satyr buddies to tell them the goal, and, well, they started getting everything together. Called up the nymphs, and the dryads, and found the perfect spot to this sort of thing: an abandoned grove at the north side of town. So what if there were rumors around it being the favored grove of Boreas? Everything wild was Pan's domain, and that guy wasn't going to care about a spontaneous party that a bunch of satyrs and other spirits put together! Besides, the North Wind hadn't been seen in Olympian in years, they were perfectly safe out here.

Leaning down and staring at the drugged Hyacinthus, the satyr couldn't help but smile. In his eyes, there was no fear, no terror, there was only the beauty of a sculpture, a thing, ripe to be taken and possessed. Gods weren't people, after all, they were just forces, representations of different concepts... Just like satyrs and dryads and nymphs. Just more powerful spirits. His hand reached out, slowly taking the handsome boy by the chin, tilting his head this way and that like he were inspecting a horse. "Tut, tut, tut... It's far too dangerous for a sweet boy like you out there... You'll certainly be staying with me." He muttered, his tone low and dark, just enough for the god to hear. The satyr was about to move on to the next stage when he noticed something...

The wind had changed.

Before, there had been a noticeably warm breeze blowing from west to east, bringing with it the slight smell of pollen and springtime rains. It had been helping the grass, which was growing magically from the influence of all the nature spirits into a pillowy floor, but now... It was definitely coming from the north. It was nothing but a breeze, but it had a chill accompanying it, and it caused the largest satyr, the one that had engineered everything, to stand up and look around. Surely, nothing could be coming? How strange for the weather to change... And then the howl began.

The breeze steadily picked up to a faster pace, whipping between the bare boughs around the clearing. It started to run with such a strength that the settled sleet along the boughs was being pushed off onto the ground, sounding like giant steps colliding with the earth. One, two, three, faster and faster and faster from the opposite end of the clearing. The satyr could feel his heart start to race. Something was coming, the very deep primal fear of prey was running through his veins. Quickly, no concern with the others around him, he began to bound from the main circle in the center of the clearing, the one underneath an old oak tree that had started to birth new leaves. He bounded, and ran, no one paying attention to him, the music to loud, the drinks too intense, the company too good for them to notice, and he ducked into a cold bush.

And that was when he arrived.

A snowy wind whirled at the edge of the clearing, first creating one foot clad in an ancient Greek sandal, and then another. The whirl grew upward, revealing a leather skirt bound with brass and bronze and iron, and then a breastplate cast from pure bronze. It had no lower garment, leaving the arms which generated soon after to be bear. They were covered in old scars, some white and thin, others deep red and textured with rough gashes. And finally toward a head, shaggy with dark black hair except for a singular curl of greying white, with a beard unkempt, not long and well-groomed, but the facial hair of a soldier who had been on campaign for too long.

Boreas hefted his empty hand and within it generated a sword made from pure ice. Still, he stalked forward, the grass at his feet withering dead as he did, as nymphs and dryads were driven before him. The satyr hiding in the bush could feel his knees shivering watching as some of his brethren came together to form a line, running against him. With a slow and careful cut of his sword through the air, the North Wind sent them hurtling back, crashing into each other and the distant tree line... And then the death began to occur. Those without the good sense to flee were slowly and carefully cut down, the only sounds in the clearing after the sound system had frozen were the screams and the terrifying howl of the wind. More and more made it to the safety of the wider trees, leaving Boreas with only a few bodies at his feet, the rest hiding... Hiding and watching.

The North Wind stalked to the last living thing before him, a boy laying in the grass underneath the central oak. Taking one step more, he raised his icy sword and looked down, prepared to provide the coup de gras of winter, to dispatch another who disrespected his grove.

Then hesitated. The sword arm dropped as his head tilted to the side, before he could resist curiosity no more. Boreas knelt down next to the boy and buried his blade into the earth, leaning down over him to push an arm underneath his back, his hand cradling his neck and head. And then, he got a closer look at the boy who had been left alone in his grove.

"... Hyacinthus?"
Alden
There was almost no time before the frigid bite of winter swept the forest with a chill so cold it burned. Deep in his trance, Hyacinthus was unaware of the sudden drop in temperature and the cool wind that rustled nearby leaves with a shivering whisper. As frost crawled across the lush greenery of the woodland like a silver serpent, the forest began to wither under its icy breath, replacing the vibrant colours that once were with a scene of bleak and desolate landscape of frost-bitten trees and ice-crusted branches. 

In the small clearing, Hyacinthus remained dazed, bathed in the pale light of clouds that formed in the heavens above. Light filtered through the skeletal canopy of barren tendrils that sprouted from trees, gnarled and twisted like silent sentinels that stood guard around him. Amongst the dying remnants of nature, the dryads and satyrs who facilitated the god's abduction soon abandoned their enthusiasm for their depraved deed, their carefree demeanours all but gone as the cold crusade of winter laid waste to their delight.

Out of place in such a grim tableau, the young god's radiant beauty stood at odds with the vines enchanted by the dryad's magic that curled and fastened around his wrists and ankles. Complacent as he was semi-conscious, Hyacinthus' state of awareness of his fate became all but clear as he struggled weakly against his constraints, his violet eyes filled with fear and defiance. The faint, ghostly wails of the dryads had suddenly faded and the satyrs no longer danced devilishly around him ready to satiate their primal hunger. Instead, the clops of goat-like hooves left shallow prints in the snow-covered earth, their mocking laughter replaced by the whistle of bitter air. Similarly, the nymph-like forms of dryads and their silhouettes retreated to the shadows of trees that surrounded the clearing, their malevolent eyes watching from the darkness as the arrival of something *Else* Foiled their dreaded machinations.

The God of the North Wind's form became visible through a swirling mist and was a towering figure that commanded fear. Clad in clothing befitting of an ancient barbarian, he carried a sword that seemed to be forged of pure, unyielding ice, the edge of its blade glimmering with the sharp edge of the indomitable cold. Then, with a mere twitch of his shadowed face, he summoned the full might of the force of winter, clearing the forest with a howling gale that stripped every tree of its crumpled leaves. Snow and frost shrieked as frigid air dispersed the creatures from their hiding places, spinning around the god in a wrathful vortex that spoke of his anger. In an instant, the dryads and satyrs were caught off guard by the stormy onslaught and were forced to recoil in terror. Their laughter died in their dry throats as the bitter cold bit into their flesh, their once-agile movements slowed by the burning sting of encroaching frost. 

The god advanced with relentless purpose, his sword shimmering with a lethal chill as he swung it with a force that seemed to echo throughout the entire woodland. Birds scattered from the barren treetops in search of reprieve as the edge of the blade cut through the air with a sharp, crystalline ring. The first satyr barely had time to react before the icy blade cleaved clean through him in an instant, leaving his corpse to hit the cold ground with a *Thump* Before shattering like glass into a thousand tiny pieces.

The blizzard claimed the dryads next who fled for the trees, engulfing them in snow and ice that whipped through the scene with blinding ferocity. Their screams were lost in the roar of the storm as their forms became encased in ice or butchered in totality, their expressions of horror frozen in ethereal terror for the rest of time. The young god watched in awe and relief as his captors were dispatched by the wrath of the figure, who moved like a seasoned warrior across the bodies scattered across the snowy ground with deadly precision. When the last creatures fell to the bitter winter frost, the man finally turned his attention to the young Hyacinthus.

His touch was gentle, belying the strength and wrath of what he had earlier summoned, as the young god began succumbing to the toxic potion's numbing effects. As if by subconscious thought alone, the vines tangled into a barbed mass of thorns around him, but were cut down easily by the same blade that claimed the lives of those that formerly held him captive. The young god stumbled forward, looking at his rescuer with fleeting gratitude and admiration as a large arm wrapped around the back of his head to support it. Then all he remembered was a face - one which he knew. 

His eyes softened with the last flickers of consciousness as the crunch of the sword impaled in the stiff snow pierced the air around them. In the boy's face, there was momentary elation as the cogs began to turn inside his mind, his memories of the stranger clouded and muddied by the effects of poison, struggling to piece together the identity of the figure that cradled him in the throes of their wintery surroundings. Then, through a warm little whisper, Hyacinthus finally spoke his name.

**"Boreas..."**

The gnarled branches of barren trees above snapped with a frightening series of cracks, their tips razor sharp as they reined in on the two gods in the snow below. From the young god there was a quiet, breathy laugh, followed by another sweet whisper as he pacified the retaliation of nature. 

**"Thank... You very much, trees... But I... I think I know him..."**
Lisa
Spirits were one of Boreas's favored foes to fight. While the different sorts of humans, from heavily armored Greeks and Romans to the swift, capable horse archers that descended from the steps, were perhaps the most varied group to confront, spirits had two essential advantages over humans that made them a unique and worthwhile opponent. The first, naturally, was how wily they tended to be; perhaps inherited from mischievous Pan, they were certainly capable of seeing through and creating many an intelligent trap for their counterparts on a battlefield... And often they were the first to notice when a situation was incredibly against their favor. Not only were they interesting in direct combat, then, but also in the chase, for they knew exactly when to run to preserve their strength, and, being related to mostly prey animals, knew how to run to avoid the most trouble.

The second benefit, of course, was the lack of blood. It was often so difficult to clean off and had a way of getting everywhere after a few strokes. Spirits often either had some form of ichor that froze quickly enough not to spread or were completely fluid-less. Therefore, when his blade of ice made it through the first satyr, bisecting him in half, it was not a concern at all how a sudden burst of scarlet would coat the sword with a hissing heat, spreading up the arm and spraying the god's side with a spattering of bright red fletching. No, instead, it was like a sharp knife had made its way through bread, leaving the loaf standing and together, until the pressure of gravity brought it tumbling apart to the ground, where it shattered into something like a million diamonds.

A select few of them were wrong.

For one dryad in particular, a rather large icicle that had seemingly grown within the space of Boreas's appearance, decided to fall at the exact moment she ran underneath the tree, landing solidly in her foot, temporarily locking it to the ground as she fell forward with her momentum. This, of course, caused a little trauma as she cried out, her friends ducking out of their hiding spaces to pull her toward safety. Another victim was suddenly beset by an almost microscopic whirlwind of raging hail and ice crystals, leaving her cut, bruised, and nearly unconscious behind a tree. Alive, both of them, but with lessons taught.

Nature had an order, one that was to be respected by *All*. Winter was the lesson to Spring's kindness, two methods of learning survival, and just because one happened to be a spirit, an immortal thing, did not mean one was untouchable from a... Teachable moment. That was all Boreas was doing, teaching in this moment not to defy the will of the seasons, the beings greater than the spirits, those who defined nature and worked with it in its existence. Winter was nothing to scoff at, it was Death in its original form, the slow and insidious killer cold that all life had to adapt to, make it through, until once more the Spring would come to rescue them. That was Boreas, the cyclical reaper covered in snow.

To be honest, he was thinking and moving in almost rote memorization now. His rage and violence were an old cape, something that resisted the rain well and was familiar enough after many nights slept under while out on the road. Something he could throw on in an instant. That was why, when he first noticed the figure underneath the tree, he had raised his sword to strike before the image could process. But when it did, the cape he had been wearing, his rage and his bloodthirst, scattered from his shoulders like so many bare threads just coming loose.

It felt like he was seeing a ghost. Because, for all intents and purposes, he was indeed.

"Hyacinthus..." Boreas repeated, looking down at the young prince he once saw in the ancient wilds of the Peloponnesus, completely ignoring the response of the tree above him, "You are supposed to be dead."

Realizing that perhaps recovering in such an intimate position was not exactly the best for a person who he had not seen in literal millennia, Boreas took a few actions to... Ease Hyacinthus into a more comfortable position. First, his hands dipped down to take hold of the vines that had wrapped around his wrists, the cold of his touch instantly freezing the fibers and allowing him to snap them into green tinted frost in a moment. Similarly, the ones around his ankles were easy enough to shatter with a breeze, allowing the god of winter to more easily pick up the young man. Slipping another arm underneath Hyacinthus's legs, he maneuvered him around the roots and knots of the oak behind him, before laying him against the trunk of the tree so that he was sitting up more comfortably.

Perhaps, after such a terrible scenario fueled by the heat of alcohol and passion, the cool breeze that the North Wind brought with him was much welcomed, but Boreas was... Still cautious about his proximity. The god knelt a decent distance away, next to where his sword had been buried in the dirt and was already starting to melt thanks to the lack of his concentration or his physical connection. For a moment, from the angle that Hy had and the height of Boreas even while knelt in front of him, it seemed as if the clouds in the sky behind him were framed perfectly to give him angelic wings, spread wide over his shoulders, as if they were protecting Hya from any unwanted eyes or arrows... And then the divinity of the other god in the scene broke through a simple illusion. Those were indeed wings, covered in white plumage, spreading from the back of the warrior in front of him as a simple barrier. Of course, it would be so easy for those violet eyes to pierce to the true form of his savior... A scarred, battered, barbaric warlord from the north, with wings like the driven snow.