Artemis stood in a waterfall, soft lingering touches of static wrapped her cannon of time with a blanket of curiosity. She was utterly unescorted in a liminal cave, wondering why she was born into a life of darkness: cursed to remain stagnant in the memories of the myriad of those that had abandoned her from birth. The instinctual need to escape the dreading nature of gravity compressing her spine, and managed to envelope her every thought. Upon letting a pair of Mechanical Boars free...the task of causing inevitable chaos had gifted the citizens a minuscule taste of her listless trepidation. Artemis felt a yielding cord in her right hand; taking comfort in turning it over gently in her palm in moments of affliction. Her dreams recalled a petty man, pathological, charming, and famed for his abilities in performative entertainment.

She had no use for the chord if it wasn’t utilized as an instrument to rope wild beasts together. She let go of a childish crush to better prepare for a field of battle. Artemis attempted to toss a shield of a beaming man aside carelessly, as though getting rid of its entirety would dissociate her from the unethical monsters that had been bound beneath the indomitable threads. Her agitation grew: the act of throwing away a shield left an unbreakable chord to keep a shield stationary in the span of a blinking ones eyes. “What the shit…is this shit?!?” no amount of tossing could explain how it were glitching before her eyes: reappearing out of thin air and remaining unconquerable out of pure spite. “This is so stupid”: Artemis tried her hand at subtle methods of abandonment…talking to nobody and pandering to an invisible audience with pith: innocently announcing that she had dropped the chord by accident and wandering away. Left only to be bustling into a new scene, and opening a clasped hand: the left behind item tucked away with coherence. Artemis grew dramatic by her own cogency: cursing at nobody and attempting to chuck the cryptic bundle of threads into oblivion. Even her own mundane curse of standing in one space would manifest into a drama-filled episode of nonsensical entertainment.

Artemis had wondered why the red thread remained so loosely knotted, softly protecting its promulgated reasons. It wasn’t until a bored moment, followed by a heaving sigh: that the crux of her issues reflected a solution upon her Golden Fleece. The rope was tied to a human that she had somehow rendered invisible; standing guard at her right and glaring to their left. The man was without amusement to her presence, but remained tugging gently at the delicate bow tied to a pinky finger. She began to steal glances at the stranger, blushing as she cherished his memorable ears and dashing smile. Her smile often broke with confusion by his boisterous laughter. The mettlesome chord began to boldly glow with her obvious anticipation of his company. His beauteous presence reminded a healing Artemis that her wounded and dispirited heart wasn’t yet prepared for that particular battle.

Artemis began to pull at her chord with shy temerity: reassured that his voice aimed in her direction would assist in declaring a runnel bit of sanity within the conspiracy of their shared reality. His strange scanning glances would prove to be validating more so than the drab red thread. Artemis began to tug on the chord with all of her might: screaming in anguish, holding a pinky to the soils as she wondered aloud where her significant other was. Her life had been sapped in the curiosity to find resolution in the hidden meaning behind such trickery, as that confined in a mystical rope. A scene of three people tied together by a pinky, a woman standing center: offered a copious amount of satirical entertainment.

Along with her defiant pull through life: came an aging Viking yelling in all directions; stumbling about and looking lost. Often standing with his arms folded and an unapologetic presence oozing with egocentric gall: scowling behind bushy brows that fell in waves of sorts. The man pretended to be gathered, but often seemed dumbfounded by her summoning skills. A refined point of greying hair was sharp in comparison to his taciturn mumbling. The man seemed to be sleepy, and addled by the purview of her charmed voice: unsure of how the petite woman had beckoned his presence from the forests of Multnomah. She knew it was best to carry on with a meeting the second he was present, and expecting him to follow suit with an unwarranted interrogation that’d cover every weakness of a proposed battle.

Artemis turned to see his familiar face: “AYA! You! What is the meaning of this?! She pointed at him in the distance with a threatening posture, and then to the thread that was bound to her finger. The man became animated with a cloddish caution, as though he were afraid of her warpath. He did something. Artemis’s acerbity implied that she wasn’t stationary and she somehow began charging directly at him and causing him to jump back and keel over to cackle with laughter. She disliked his insolent snicker: his jackal features and strident apologetic tone suggested that they were perennial friends. He sat beside her and waved his thin limbs about, as he explained that abiding temper had resulted in a sentence of holding down a pit of despair. He continued to verify that the only way to serve her sentence, was to acknowledge and repent for her discourteous privilege. Artemis grew offended by his lack-of-wisdom: politely calling him childish, and telling him to go fuck himself. Artemis waved him out of her sight with an empirical gesture and the light flicking of a wrist; that guy drover her nuts for no reason. All that was left of her was the desperation to survive, and the ability to prepare diligently for battle.

The man began to roost and bow in her direction: eventually becoming attenuate in assisting her in climbing from the tunnel of darkness labeled purgatory. He eventually left her side by shielding himself from her peripherals: tethering himself at the middle point of the red thread that kept her memories hostage. He acted as a kink in a hosing device, and separated Artemis’ voice from reaching the boy with fine white robes. It wasn’t until Artemis began to pick at the bow and cast endless arrows across the void of static: that the man would have to return to undo his twisted actions. It felt like centuries, and was probably longer than anyone could count. Upon loosening the wrapped thread from around his aging hand: a strange boyish-man with a hollow laughter appeared from beyond the reflection of her device. Artemis glared at him in impatient observation: jaded that he seemed to let people walk all over him, and disturbed by his inability to stave off the endless subversion. Maybe her absence was a blessing: her arrogance may be redeemed as malapert...to his occasionally boorish moods. Artemis noted that his surfeited expectations in others seemed to be higher than the ones he held for himself. She fell quiet, assuming he’d find embarrassment in her preeminent ability to grow angry with ten fold of the necessary loudness needed. They were at direct odds, polar opposites as to what each considered to be formidable entertainment.

Their unresponsive symptoms towards the other concerned the Viking, and he returned to pacing around the pair that remained side-by-side: both were stubborn to the absence of the other, and somehow annoyed with the sparing held in place of the void of conversation. The aging man adjusted his spectacles, and began to grow judgemental of the boyish-man that held many hairstyles and a mellifluous voice. He murmured perplexed utterances like: "Really?...him?" and "fascinating", situating the metal frames that slid down his aquiline nose. He attempted to hide his indignation that a stranger could bring utter silence to her anxiety-filled ranting. Artemis felt the judgey looks being cast behind her back, and asked the Viking if he were confused, or...if maybe his frustration was brought on by buried jealousy. She raised a gentle wrist and pretended to whisper in his direction "Are you jealous tho? Wassup? Why are you being a grumpy bear?" Some days she’d spread her arms and asked the darkness: "Are you sure it’s not because you’re jealous...deep,deep...deep down?" There were days where she’d explore the concept of a "jelly old man", pandering to his outdated lingo as she shrugged and smiled with confidence in the paraphrasing of her own game. Her ability to spit nonsense in his direction was a real treat to others. Artemis enjoyed the thought of the sassy elder saying obscure things like "boats and hoes.", and knowing he’d be mildly amused by her flirtatious ability to bring forth hours of endless entertainment.

She had noted that the man seemed bewildered by the dedication in catering to this arbitrary stranger glaring from side-to-side, in his white linens and Traditional black hat. Artemis took fascination in his pettiness, and his voracious love of seasoned meats. She too...woo’d with the masses at his tireless dedication to dancing. The Viking could throw down gruff verbal tantrums and debates with Artemis for a millennium, and the two would still be left without the last word: whereas, this random fellow could dawn her into silence by a mere fixating glance cast blindly in her direction. Artemis would groan, and make monstrous noises that exhaled all nagging emotions from the exhaustion brought on by having to behave oneself in public. The Viking seemed almost impressed that she left respect and class for those that deserved it, and he watched as Artemis casually leaned to her left in search for Orion: wondering how long his mercurial mood would last, and dodging the austerest glances cast her way by the capricious boy at her right. She’d preoccupy the doddering humor of the Viking: raising a slight hand and casually yelling: "hoes be moody". Her words rang with sincerity, and proved her unabashed crassness to be thought provoking and juiced up with entertainment.

Artemis had cursed herself to be immortal, cast from Mt.Olympus to witness the death of a Mechanical Boar. A drought had brought forth hope, led by the Languid aging beast: hooves stomping with the plangent swells of celebration. She rode atop a monster, swaying with the battle hymns of Apashe: the roaring tides of the Revenge of the Orchestra. The tact of a Kind-Hearted hunter had taught Artemis the lure of an illiberal narcissistic mask slipped away with a shutter and flash. Artemis had wanted to bask in the glory of watching the tail wag a beast, if only to obliquely observe a small scab develop into a wound. The Boar had refused to build a sty; intransigent,imprudent and suffered from sleep deprivation. Artemis was plantive, content with a life filled with intergenerational trauma. The Boar had the right to shut up, or hold his hooves to himself...whereas Artemis had the curse of seasonal idolently; "understandable" depression...the mortals only unwinnable battle.

Artemis felt the immense pressure of a multitude of past lives; the scrubbed memories of being wed to the man on her right. The nightmares of a bride, held at bonded wrists and laced night wear. She had royally pissed him off in the surreal situations of stumbling upon a world famous idol, her tone poignant and impatient. Other times she’d be elated by his choice in accessory. "Cool sword, bro". It seemed like more fun to say little, and enjoy the freedom to anticipate the arrival of Orion without an apology armed. The Prince of Petty would have no room to spare form mistakes or inconveniences. Choi was forever hissing in his left ear, Artemis was gifted with dreams of walking away...needing to detach from the hypothetical impact that such a possessive individual presented to another’s pairing as a couple. The notion of a stranger attempting to take reigns over her relationship with another was a dangerous, but familiar battle.

She perceived his wallowing friend to be magnanimous and miserable in his loud existence, a man in the constant search of bragging rights and appraisal, all to accompany his minimal efforts. His dolorous personality was underwhelming in comparison to her trauma-filled laughter. Artemis had no intentions of catering to such a strange individual. She admired a Prince-like boy with a fiery desire, even finding humor in his sanctimonious vanity which somewhat reminded her of the Viking. The outpouring of patterns, made her sigh in disapproval...bothered by the questionable taste she had in men. A plantive tone, would often be the tipping point for many, as indifference could always sway an entire battle.

Artemis began to worry that the Prince’s affection would eventually morph into pity, fated with the inevitably of standing upon a porch and venting his discomfort through a red cone that magically magnified his voice. Artemis was plantive; left to witness his many, many grievances...acknowledging the fact that everything had indeed become “All About My Wife”. His cries of disdain would be met with deaf ears...privy by the facts that Artemis had spent her whole life coddling attention to details, and elevating the need to improve herself. She prided herself on the public forum she had impeccably crafted to display the healing process with the citizens, all whilst secretly mending from battle.

Artemis let the untied thread fall from her loosened hand, causing humorous disdain to a Viking. He was forced to re-secure the knot on the daily. He’d finally given up on the tact of grace, and threatened her with a single finger that meant he was officially fed up with her shit. The thought of his dramatics made her smirk: Artemis liked the Viking the most when he was honest with himself. She savored potential chances of future adroitness in using his own words against him…softly suggesting that he "calm down". Sanctimonious words thrown at any female, meant to start the longest of wars. Many a men had casually dismantled their lives, waking up and chosing violence and an impromptu battle.

Without proof that the Viking was near, she was free to giggle at the idea of pissing off a friendly dude. Artemis could easily remain grinning sillily as she imagined his broad shoulders drop with a visual thud and endless sighs. There was nothing left between them besides endless conversations and admiration, but Artemis often caught him glancing up at her past the rim of his glasses: stealing poetic moments that implied that she were the fabled muse: Eungyo. She knew that the Viking could meet countless crowds of people, and still reserve annoyance that was meant solely for her. One day…Artemis began to speak lucidly to the Viking, as she asked why he insisted on joining the pair together without either of their acknowledgement. They seemed like a beautiful pairing...no doubt, but Artemis tended to feel like a filler of his loneliness, and less like a cherry blossom. It’d cause her to flee and lean in towards Orion’s direction on their worst days. She had once loved a man to the end of the galaxy and back...whereas Orion would always need to see the edge of the galaxy, before he’d come back for her. They were complimenting sides of a coin that needed constant flipping to hold passionate momentum. Artemis didn’t mind a love that was treacherous, if it meant foregoing a life without privacy and the endless need to provide shallow entertainment.

The Viking remained silent: she wondered if he was concerned as to whom she was talking to, and it resulted in Artemis shrugging. The lady had gotten used to people assuming she were daft, and it was fun holding in the secret of viewing the threaded path for well over a year. The secrets made her curly hair hold incredible volume. Admittedly the Prince-like man was exactly “her type”, minus close-minded arguments, like an orchastrated architect or engineer of sorts. Any argument with Prince and his charming fluted voice sounded like an exhausting uphill battle.

It gave her hesitation to step into a lion’s den where there were forever five-to-six men blindly guarding the feelings and actions of one man. Artemis knew that each of his friends would find her to be a threat to their accumulated success, and gave them a challenge that’d eventually assist him to climb up a case of stairs and arrive at a haunted doorstep. Artemis handed them each a book of blank pages, and watched as they grew giddy and whispered to themselves dramatically "The Scaling Stone" or, "the cloth stone!" in awe-filled and hushed voices. She asked each man to draw her portrait, and to present their offerings to the man dawning a leather coat and endlessly handsome fairy-like traits: the world would watch in amusement as he guessed endless names, and he listened to them explain stories or dismissed them with the dainty twirl of the wrists. Some that ancient entertainment.

The man would take their portrayal of tales personally, humbled by the disappointed gerund at their sacrifices in bringing forth accurately drafted portraits of an absolute stranger. Artemis found it awesome, clapping and cheerfully jumping up and down in place. her laughter and tears were often blissful in excitement to some of their stories. In reality: they were individually lacking artistic talents that transcended a stage, and each of their "stones or cloths" had looked like they were painted upon by children scribbling in a timed rush. They were so bad at drawing. The list of the things they lacked in included only athletics and arts. It was fascinating to see the bend of imagination grip an entire simulation: all eyes set on the messy illustrating of a potential wife to a stubborn husband. Artemis assumed the viewership of such a intricate spectacle would be prime entertainment.

That shit delighted Artemis: it displayed their unique ability in remissness when participating in teamwork focused events, and furthered her point as to their indirect intentions. This ceremonious occurrence was physical verification of their unavailing sportsmanship. The six men would cause utter havoc, as they searched for the proper way to illustrate nugatory stories to be reminiscent of a familiar stranger. She longed to observe the five men be tormented by the insensibility of the Prince, as her own memories were filled with infantile arguments with such a tempered individual. Proof in the rice pudding...that type idiotic episodes was capable of endless accrued entertainment.

It’d only be the leggy boy, nicknamed for being a Prince in his own fortitude:that cause crack in the jaded spell, for he’d always manage to peer at her face for a split second; out of sheer longing and will for a decent friendship. The boy had gone searching for a "Ride or Die" type of companion and dreampt of her face: seeking for the lost symbols...needed to bring his friend back to life. The slender man had become enervated at the task in artistry, giggling, in his inefficacious and longing for proper slumber. He was depleted of ideas for hand-written poems meant to bring Artemis from her static-laced veil, and defunct of the memories they held in the shared love of laughter. They stood face-to-face at last, and the foreigner seemed perplexed in viewing a small moribund woman that was supposedly fit for the title of wife to his mother-like leader. Artemis tilted her head from side-to-side, chipper and amused: peering at him with a warm smile, and her familiar waves of emotions reminded him that she had endlessly missed him. The boy was all that was left of the joy Buckles had brought into the world, and it had rendered Artemis catatonic to be without his company. Artemis could live a million lives without wedding the stranger to her right, but felt dutifully protective over the companionship she held with the man with impeccable fashions, and a comedic inability to cast a formidable ballad. Artemis handed him a bow and arrow to allay his anxiety, and sent him back to the line of battle.

One day the stately boy comprised of mostly legs and a smile stood at her door and lightly knocked on its frame: armed with only the chance to ask her a single question. “Who Are You?”: Artemis abruptly severed her tears, and began to hug him frantically. Her tears transformed from red saddened burdensome droplets, to transparent ones of a hopeless romantic...they were the reminisce of a woman that had allowed the world to torpefy her heart. A person diminished to ashes an left to appease the masses and their need for constant entertainment.

Artemis watched as the boy broke into a dance, gracefully pulling his limbs smoothly in the air...the boy held an artistic "passion" that brought contemporary dance back from a state of passé with a single performance. His improvised dance cast a smile to sprawl across her otherwise hardened face, and she looked forward to his every recital. One day he noticed she had refused to look up, devoid of pretending to be joyous and filled with self-doubt. He had even clapped his hands twice, and Artemis had refused to softly reply "party". The boy had felt her pent-up eagerness to flee the performance that had been called her life. A single scene of Artemis holding tight to a leather belt, was all the evidence need to prove to her friend that her life had been a horror show, void of colorful light-hearted entertainment.

Her unnamed anguish had introverted into a virus that expressed the internal screaming she hushed with each fit of laughter. Her destitute life was without the privileged to admit such simple acknowledgements like: I "wannacry". He had decided to lacerate her depression with a familiar dance; dawning fine black linens and a friendly smile. He was so beautiful in that moment. Artemis wiped away the swells of emoting tears, as her once inoperative heart began overflowing with pride: wondering if he had crafted the piece solely for her. Had he known that one performance anchored her to a moment of hope that drew Artemis past another successful season of a depression-filled battle?

She had missed the man composed mostly of leggy limbs and silly heckling. It left her to ponder what argument had ripped them apart, or why he didn’t seem to remember her face. Maybe there hadn’t been a confrontation or dispute at all...maybe he had been reluctant to leave her, and was forced to lead five men on a Sisyphean task to sunder an otherwise refractory man. Artemis nodded, and said “My name’s Tilla”, pointing at her blonde locks as a hint. She was quite deferential as to why she’d been born with the name “Royal One”, but she was curious as to a sensible explanation towards why Orion wasn’t particularly fond of her Traditional name. The act of an enchanting Prince at her door; softly calling her name had made more-than-enough sense to her. The nearly-naked man would resent the mere notion of a competition for her hand. She assumed he’d be perpetually annoyed by the affection of a conservative and outmoded individual. Such a grandiose introduction would undoubtedly present the world with an overwhelmingly dramatic battle.

Artemis had been named "Princess" at birth, and this allowed her to be seen by a Prince that openly sought out “his Princess”: wandering through the public, flashing a charismatic smile and charming all the women that vaguely reminded him of her. Artemis watched a disorganized young man comprised of mostly legs, as he accidentally gazed at her waist: tied to a vast man looking away from her and glaring into the invisible sunset. He’d return to his portrait line and sigh, weary of his own high-maintenance friend flicking his wrist at the stagnating storytellers. The Prince was stubborn in all of his glory: standing casually with a tiger-encrusted hilt etched upon a sword that nonchalantly impaled his chest. He’d declare their stories obsolescent to his quest, ushering his friends from sight until they were rendered enfeeble to his demands: returning to stare off into the abyss, having forgotten why his sight remained transfixed upon a drawn line that lay to the right of him. The lengthy young man had grown frustrated with his haughty friend, and decided to skip his dedicated turn in drawing a shitty portrait of an obscure person...that he couldn’t seem to recall. Instead: he sought out a muse in a cave, and found himself standing directly in front of Artemis once more: armed with only a question, and the exhaustion of spending his youth treating each stage as though he were preparing for battle.

The slender boy asked the strange mountain of a man his question: pointing his sharp tongue towards the endlessly-brooding guy standing next to Artemis…“Who are You?”. The man lacking social skills said nothing: tugging at his tether, gesturing silent approvals for her to answer…he was occupied with holding his back towards them, thrawn in proving to an audience of nobody that he was endlessly upset. Artemis was used to speaking for him, and so she said softly and with pride “My Roommate is a Gumiho, but I just call him Sir”. The boy seemed petrified on her behalf, stammering on his own words in anxious nervousness. Artemis observed as he darted to the back of the line of artists, and prepared his next portrait of her to showcase towards his blinded comrade. He had drawn only a few things this time around: a house, holding only the possessions of a bow and arrow inside, and sitting atop the single word “sir”. He set up his drawing before the eyes of an eager Prince. The world observed patiently, as he began to stir in annoyance: animated by a shittily-drawn illustration that seemed quite nonsensical. The spell was weakening, so the tender-hearted friend returned before Artemis once more: unaware that his “friend” who claimed to be sun-filled had wished out loud before a sphinx: for the sentence of serving for 30,000 years behind six other men to be cursed to work tirelessly to bring the world awful entertainment.

He came to her door and softly tapped its frame with a couple of weak “bam-bam” movements that fell from his thin hands. It’d be his tiredness of holding up the brunt work of two people that eventually assisted him in seeming genuinely relieved to see her, as he asked for the last time…“Who are You?”. She had become weary over the many lives of “standing around”: only given the chance to throw out two different sentences in any order she needed, and a single pointing gesture to accompany her trance-filled words. This time she was able to point up at her golden hair and smile upon his face at last. “My Tila”. Artemis wondered how many moons had passed while the world watched the activity of a childish game unfold, and if she’d finally done enough to make sense of the plane of reality they all shared. She’d cursed herself by wishing to be a famed artist and author…all for the sake of entertainment.

Artemis began to giggle to herself: daydreaming of a Prince that seemed to enjoy the gesture of patting atop her sprawling curls; in spite of her being his elder. She’d smile softly at the idea of him finding lame excuses to be nearer: just in case her clumsy nature resulted in the chance for him to whisk her away from danger with an embrace. Artemis knelt forward and allowed her stance to break from the line they held, as to witness the boy kneeling before his friend, and proudly displaying the exact same portrait he had the time before. He had taken her hint, and stripped the color pigment from his own hair: shielding his face with his offering, and displaying a self-portrait of Artemis. She wondered what his first words would be…upon removing his silk scarf from around his head. Would he be perpetually upset that Artemis had finally allowed herself to fall victim to a man with Casanova genes? Could he ever understand that Artemis was a woman worth cherishing and defending, or would he always abandon her side at inconvenient moments before each romantic battle?

Artemis recalled verbal altercations surrounding boundaries, and implicated one individual of attempting to cast her as insane. Was the evidence of a dull, goblinish and hypercritical friend enough for him to change? Did he even care how often Artemis had hid away the emotional damage caused by the apocryphal "gentleman" standing in directly in front of him: a strange man wearing a single Xenian flower...laughing endlessly, as he blamed his laziness on others. Artemis noticed he enjoyed the art of holding critiqe for the appearance of men...more than he took part in cherishing women. Such an uncomfortable life...holding oneself awkwardly stiffened in a wavering closet, and hiding ones true self in a lonely battle.

The imprudent snarl of Choi had broken her spell, and caused a splintering crack in her jade face piece. His insults were often enriched with personal details, or ignored with the twitch of a nose. Artemis had noticed his expectations in the Prince, upon witnessing him make "a joke" as to how he was a Goblin on multiple occasions. She had found it to be a wildly specific, and an outdated way to try and wield impugn in brandishing the image of his "friend". Artemis recalled a dream or memory where where she had once cast pity upon the man with unredeeming qualities: politely assessed her inability to ever trust such a "forgetful" man to be able to care for a child. The words of a private conversation would have devistating effects. The astute comment caused the loner to stir resentment and death-filled wishes in return. She had no apologies for an immature man that had even thought it wise to intrude upon her home and declare battle.

Artemis had handed the man an oversized spoon, and he began to smile wickedly: captive to his true intentions upon the "friend" of many moons. Artemis had wanted only a mere chance at success, and the unraveling of a simulation was the key to demonstrating the lengths in which her life had always been endangered. Would her suitor awake, and ever admit the maltreatment he witnessed? Could he cut the red thread without spite guiding his hand, or would he finally garner the strength to abandon those with ill intentions and lust for violence? There was no way of telling, but she was glad to be unaffected by the verbal rants at the topics of her desire to be admired. Nothing bored her faster than mean-spirited entertainment.

Artemis had noticed that her suitor utilized his enchanted voice of authority: the troupe began to dance with striking formation at his decree. Artemis had known her actions were challenged by his assumption in friendships, and so she allowed Prince time to organize his priorities. She held a line of defense in the didactic understanding that his “friends”, would finally be caught holding a pristine and barren book: filled with sheets of blank “portraits”. His jealous intent caused the motion of a man threatening the neck of another with a spoon instead of bringing aid: disdain to anyone with immeasurable talents, and burdened by his own incessant need to be praised. The absence of a Prince would mean irrelevance by lack of proximity. Artemis didn’t find his friend to be remarkable outside of his belting voice, and it would grind her gears to watch as he often mocked his other six “friends”, and complained of idoled privilege. She had noted that he demanded audiences cheer him on...although he lacked memorable personality traits, and frequently screamed for appraisals: despite his efforts in charming or committing to the art of silly entertainment.

Artemis had nominated the men in the order of their memorability and personalities: each man given a window to observe her and craft machinations portrait on the daily. Sunday was reserved for Mark, as he held a sweet and kind heart: Artemis saw that women longed to bring him home to their families to partake in sweet-sauced grilled meats and picnics. Monday was dedicated to a guy named Choi, as he was quite loud, obnoxious and unlikable. He reminded Artemis of someone’s perverted uncle that thought being loud was equivalent to being remarkable. He had bullying qualities to him, and was somehow left unaccountable for starting out someone’s entire week wrong. Tuesday was nominated to her BamBams, as he was the comforting friend that followed the harsh Monday. He was suave and relaxed: sauntering into each room as though it were a sophisticated club where cosmos would flow and good memories were crafted. If you could survive a Monday...then you’d deserve a Tuesday, surrounded by good company and kind laughter. Wednesday was reserved for a petty Prince, as he was allowed to pass off his blank book to anyone he pleased. His failures were forever his own, rebuked by his inability to ask for help a majority of the time. He was the centerfold of Artemis’s heart, and the foundation of her inspired charm. He had the potential to make-or-break her heart into two, or to stitch it into one massive piece that was completed and filled with bottomless admiration. Thursday was gifted to Jackson, as his refreshing humor prepared the world for the weekend. His craft in cheering and hyping those around him often pulled people out of their slumps, and cast grins and unexpected laughter into a bleak world. His spontaneous love of adventure would drag the world to take unexpected leaps and strive for destinations unknown. Friday was set aside just for YuYu, as he was a machine programmed to dance and inspire the endless crowds that gathered. His endlessly youthful enthusiasm would be a marvel to witness, as the memorable gentle-giant personality made him beyond huggable and reliable in personal strength. Artemis wondered if he had ever missed their friendship from past lives, but felt it’d be a rocky situation if it ever appeared as more than such. Saturday was left just for Lim Jaebeom: he was in charge of making sense of the entire week, holding strict expectations and forever holding the essence of a bachelor-type man: worthy only of the efforts used in a passionate one-night stand. His moods would sway, forever favorably preserving self image or presenting an intimidating persona of an unattainable fleeting man. His dedication to these traits surpassed any efforts accumulated in displaying marital seriousness. A wedding altar stood vastly further in distance to him than that of any corpse-piled territory: those historically reserved for battle.

She had reason to prove that Bam-Bam would always break his spell first: missing their platonic friendship: he’d always awaken and be the wittiest of the chaotic crew. Stumbling to kneel before her, as he blindly began wondering why something felt as though it were missing...he’d gone to search for the messy friend that had wandered into his life, just as he began to achieve immense success as a solo artist. Artemis knew that he and Orion held immense potential to get along swimmingly: for he was a beautiful walking canvas meant to display fashionable trends, and Bam-Bam had enough masculine confidence for the two of them. She had only wanted a chance to hold on to what little portion of her deceased friend Buckles that was left in the universe, and had accidentally fallen into a fox-trap that collapsed time upon itself. Artemis could’ve easily let one of the six other men draw endless portraits tirelessly, but it’d prove distracting from the totality of the substantiated point. She also knew that waking up the Prince would Carry a Hard punishment that was cast in the form of glares and future hushed arguments. He held the curse of providing fortune to others with every enchanted step, whereas Artemis’s turmoil-drenched smile was non-significant to the tantamount of his efforts. Such men often treated every ounce of inconvenience to be heralded evidence of ungratefulness and reasons to apply the adage of making a marriage worse with silence. The lack of love-filled words were the unmendable actions that costs entire relationships, and declared open invitations for strangers to hold opinions on such a public battle.

It was a strange relief to be absent in seeing herself tethered to a massive man stewing in his own disappointment: if only for a few days. Such a funny situation and power in overridden defiance would bother the Prince-like man to no end: Artemis would shrug to herself, knowing he could have any female he wanted in the whole fucking world: yet, she wasn’t allowed to have a romantic past in the form of a brooding eagle-nosed man. Orion existing was the taunting proof that Artemis had once allowed herself to relax, and taken refuge with a man holding a youthful aura of vigor and passion. The stirring of two men outside of a door frame: was all that was needed to inspire a poem meant to express the intricate caveat in love being expressed through physical gestures. The antecedent jealousy of man could always supply endless entertainment.

Six friends were drafted into a game meant to break a Prince’s spell of blinding furor; holding the journey to dismantle his seething rage towards Artemis in their hands. She assumed the game had started at the consumption of a single bite of an apple, and been derailed by her own evasive desires. It was within her rights to say nothing: recalling memories of staring amorously at the Prince and avoiding his accusatory sharp questioning. It didn’t seem worth any value for her to admit the demarcation of endless daydreams of wondering what their children would look like, and how beautiful such an occurrence would be. She had learned from countless arguments that her opinions on expectations in their partnership were invalid, and veered from whatever confrontation he had prepared for such topics. Artemis decidedly fled from his ruthless agitation towards her existence: plugging herself into a simulation and choosing to recreate the sexual past she held with Orion; hoping to reboot the depths of her femininity. Artemis had selected a time in her life that was free of loathing; bountiful in memories of a reoccurring tryst and lust-filled battle.

Dawning the cannoned vision of her past...emancipated a wife from abysmal arguments, and the proliferation of expectations of a man she had attempted to love with every turn. Reliving her own mistakes would give her a reborn sense of humanism, and provide Orion a chance to recall the brightly shining woman he had once swept away into a sunset: carrying her upon his back and surprising her with a confusing kiss. Why hadn’t she been enough for him? She had brought Lights & Motion into his life, and he had left her alone in the dark to bemoan a relationship that had never gotten off the ground. A Prince would get his wish: longing to return to a time before they had met and shared smiles, and Artemis would get hers: missing the memory of Orion picking her up in one swoop, using their two youthful bodies to celebrate athletic victories. Artemis knew a single sentence would cause the Prince to pull-the-plug on the simulation that kept her hostage, as he didn’t take her public statements of personal sexual encounters to be considered appropriate forms of entertainment.

Artemis laughed at her own wit. She owed the Prince-like-boy absofruitly nothing...they had technically never met in the context of the finalization of her book. Artemis loved it…it felt fucking fantastic. It was peaceful in her airy flat, clean and quiet: free of the judgment of six men that included themselves in everything and rarely shut up. The seven were dissevered from knowledge of entry to the cavernous home of static and super emulated methods. The comfortable air would surely make one man maddened beyond words: upset that he was voluntarily absent during a time where Orion was also excused from her life. He’d miss his window of opportunity because of a page that displayed antipathy-laced emptiness. The will of Choi was it’s own form of wicked entertainment.

She had used that time to speak with Orion, or admire him from a distance... until he had sprinted to find her as a last resort of creating a home. Artemis wondered if she had grown tired allotting excuses for a Prince with jealous actions in deprecating “his wifes” existence. Exhausted by the tireless dreams; where six men tracked her down, and began bickering arguments. A majority of them had crowned her as “Mrs. Park”, and wasted their free time remanding her crown by swaying childish verdicts. Five men would take turns attempting to deem her unworthy, in mean and vindictive scenes that panned-out in her dreams or hid behind veils of static. Their biddable intentions had rendered their "friend" dilatory by their hands alone. Each had wanted her to admit a life of unimportant existence without their approval, and in turn: their actions were on public display and recorded for eternity. Artemis had decided that her simulation was invaluable to the decision as to which man to wed. Orion in battle with himself, and a Prince battling the trials of friendship...each done to create an honest and equal portrait mean-spirited "entertainment".

Artemis would throw her hands over her head: entertwing her fingers and smiling shyly with rosey cheeks: relaxing...just as she once had when Orion had decided to test her flexibility in reward to their ability to lead Indigenous Warriors on a court of polished wood. He would always find time to celebrate her athletic talent, and sex and soft kisses were the only reward that they had ever agreed upon: no matter their angered mood towards the other during the day. Sometimes they "rewarded" each other...simply for finding common ground: agreeing that physical attraction could make the difficult days seem less harsh. Orion used silence to control each room, and her docility made them to be forever surrendered to one another in an ongoing messy battle.

She often reflected on the cache of memories as prizes on display for her earned efforts: trophies for having used fundamental skills to her advantage. Artemis often blushed at the thoughts of their need to say less to one another during such congratulatory times. Artemis had only the smiles and freeflowing tears as standing proof of being loved and fiercely adored by a tall and brooding man. She had fought for him with a fury that left her petrified, sparing her insanity with only the option to weep in his absence. His inability to care for others had been their only unwinnable, uncompromisible battle.

Artemis would spare herself panic attacks, and suppress the hissing notion that she may never see him again…telling the sensible side of her thought process that such a concept was ludicrous. It was undeniable...that she had done nothing to warrant him abandoning her side forever. Her longing stares at a vacant door were meant to prove the extent of her excrable emotions, and they were held visible to only the court of public opinion and an unbothered audience. Artemis would shrug in boredom…knowing that such tales were why people compared marriage to that of a bloodless battle.

Artemis had no apologies to distribute...for she had never actually met or personally spoken to such a Prince-like man, his hypothetical glares were indiscernible: he was a character of fictional construct, drafted in the likely image of a stranger. She had only a litany of very tangible and real experiences with Orion, and the burden of proof that he felt the need to be alone, and somehow near her at all times. Artemis was a broken woman that suffered the torment of bewildering dreams of taking comfort in his kisses upon her forehead while restlessly rolling over during slumbar. There was no proof that she could even turn to the right and find comfort with the man standing worlds apart by choice. Adodyne provided by an open heart, wandering mind, and the need to escape the over-romatization of her life gave life to a manuscript...drafted with nonsensical entertainment.

The Prince was duly cast to accomidate the Oddessy of a failing Princess. Artemis could imagine being compliant to his many, many demands to a fault; causing distance to blindly grow between them. He seemed distracted by a woman dawning an elaborate yellow gown and pale skin, where the world became infatuated by Artemis’s ability wear the shit out of a yellow dress...those free of frills or boning and managing the contrast between her olive skin and delicate fabrics. Artemis was unable to compete with a stranger cast for her ability to dance with a beast, and unwilling to hold herself in comparison to a random thrown into a mix at the demand of a Prince. Artemis had invested in her intellectual value and sobering self-worth...and the other woman had invested in nepotism, unsolicited judgements, and a meticulously crafted career in entertainment.

Orion had needed Artemis to be pathetic in her love for him; instead, she had thrown them into a game. A wife with the intention to prove that his one pathetically transparent “female friend”, was equally sinister in her motivations in meddling: to that of six men put-together. His old fuck-buddy "friend" would always offer him a blue marble, and pull it away as he reached for it. Claiming it was poisoned by Artemis with a reddish tint, and reiterating that her infallible talents alone...could cast it blue. The man was a victim to his own gullible nature, chosing to believe that the token held promise in turning around his life of misfortune. Being athletic, talented and beautiful wasn’t enough for him. Nothing was ever enough for him, and that included Artemis’s undeniable love for him. The self-loathing that he held towards himself crafted the man a path that was paved with a steep self-made uphill battle.

Artemis was tired of people fucking up her day with expectations meant only for her, and confused by the range of maltreatment she was forced to suffer... and so, she gifted each man with either an option of a blank sketch book, or a single glass marble that were colored to be bluer than the ocean. Each man was given the option to distribute the weapons to their designated crew, and to manage their own curses without her presence...all in order to relieve her suffering in being the cornerstone of each man’s easily winnable battle.

Artemis stood over the game: blindly watching as they reacted with vastly different responses to their commonly-found artifacts. Each team began to build an insane competition, as to whom was the more likely candidate to win her hand in marriage: eventually forming an entire universe. Artemis didn’t like betting, and this showed exactly how each man had a unique ability to fucking test her temper. The world held their breath, witnessing the mayhem, and taking bets as to which suitor would grab her hand first. Each man would have their own reasons for anguish; in discovering the Truman factors injected into their lives for the sake of entertainment.

Artemis had only been tasked with attaining an apple comprised of static and a definative choice in suitor: telling herself she’d marry whichever would cleave through static-filled obstacles first. She couldn’t give an answer to a question that had never been asked, and found a loophole in the suggestion that it was only her burden alone to carry. The two men were held at equal trial: to be left with only the option to ask for the assistance of those they deemed their “friends”, or to lacerate her from their lives altogether. Only one would have the inner-strength to brush away the jilted offerings, content with decided their own future through the single word in declaring “enough”. Until that fateful day: she had relinquished the doubt of the public courts of opinion by proving that each of the men weren’t ready to take her hand in marriage. They had each gone out of their way to suggest that she was worthless: outside of their precursory assumptions that her life was crafted into existence to merely provide them entertainment.

Artemis had almost forgotten the fear that the plodding, pole-ish woman had brought into her home. The poem was scripted only to gift the wretched human a single candle and a blue marble. She watched patiently as the slow, yet cunning woman charmed Orion....telling him that Artemis had turned the marble red with her selfishness. Artemis could tell him calmly, or in a flurry of rage that the marble was blue for literally forever and-a-day, but he’d always hand it back to the bleak woman. Artemis was unprepared to fight a fox with ninty tales, unable to go toe-to-toe with a spoiled childish female that forever reeked the scent of a drunken concubine. It all had seemed like such an avoidable, and thankless battle.

The "loving husband" and his old buddy, passed the marble back and forth before each moon rise. The moon silently reminded him of a calmly Prince-like man that often shied away from Artemis. The lost memory would result in Orion loathing everybody on most days. Artemis had finally ceased her tears and sought intrigue in her hearbroken stupor, and brought forth two men attached to a red thread: A man that proved Artemis had gruelingly worked to uphold decorous friendships. She was always rendered to be defensive towards his tarred perception of a pale friend and a booming voice. He refused to admit that Artemis and the Viking could hold a distant friendship, and would abhor glares meant to combat their intellectual tiffs. Orion found their friendship to be undesirable, feeding into his contumacious reluctance...and unworthy of being called entertainment.

Orion stood abrassive to the impapable friendship, and offended that she required others to break the anticipated spells of despondance that fell with the snow. He’d accuse her of being unitelligble of understandings male intentions. The strained conversations would result in the man boxing her out of his life with a cold shoulder: obsessed with passing off a blue marble. His old "friend" would always grow bored of the endless parade of men that culled her vagina, and she’d undoubtedly return to Orions side...if only to suck the life out of him for imperceptible reasons and vile entertainment.

The tall-ass Siren had words of ill-intent, and one day they’d eventually bleed past the pages Artemis had hidden in plain sight. The only person that’d be witness to Artemis’s trauma would be a kind and brave man named the Viking. He’d always be the first one she called: strained by the impractical topics of conversation...he often advised her with such bad advice; she’d be obliged to find her own opinion or solution following their interactions. Artemis had drafted an entire manuscript to describe the leering nightmare called her life, and lay bricks of truth to secure reasons as to why she began to become frightened by the idea of "someone" breaking into her home in the middle of the night. Artemis would draw Orion’s registered weapon and stand her ground: only to have Orion attempt to apologize on behalf of an intruder trespassing into the home...where their child slept. Artemis would flee with only the truth, and the need to find a logical solution for such marital terrorism: asking for life-advice from the only man calm enough to sort through all that could be inferred from the horrific situation. He was the only friend that would understand the fear and exhaustion in her voice, and refuse to call such blatant crimes...drunk accidents or trivial entertainment.

The omission of the Vikings presence and opinion would rip worlds apart. Orion hated that another man was brought into an arguement that wasn’t evolved around their friendship. Artemis had wept and laughed through the exhaustion resulting in the stern Viking patting her shoulder in calming awkwardness. Artemis had only wanted to verbally parce through the facts, and be nullified in the confusion and rage lost to her own stupid teary voice. Artemis could lie a million times directly to Orion’s face, but she had never attempted such a trait towards the Viking, as he had always earned her respect. Artemis had countless fights with Orion in her dreams over the dynamics of their balanced friendship, as she’d say "mean" things like: "Why would I ever lie to him?", laughing and shaking her head at the absurdity of doing such. The Viking had always responded to her communications, and they had moved past her youthful crush years before she had stepped into a marriage. Orion would always find their friendship to be out of place, or unauthentic, as he could only compare and gauge friendship...to the toxic and isolating one he’d sustained with a blithering immature woman. Artemis had rolled her eyes as the skeletal woman declared the falsehood that all friendships were akin to that of an unending battle.

Artemis had survived a life of reliving her nightmares and past lives: recalling one in particular, where her best friend had stood cross-armed and dead center of a rounded room paneled in chormed silver and flickering lights. He was gazing at the lush blue sphere that drew nearer and nearer, and Artemis had staggered into scene with a hazardous urgency, interrupting his determined stares into the nearing planet. "Everyone made it out safely". She felt somehow intimidated, as he turned and seemed confused and angered by her unannounced presence. The room felt as though it were burning up, and sweat began to bead upon her forehead: it became clear within an instant that the man had no intentions of leaving the impending ruinous flames consuming their surrounding environment. They were at odds in the ending of some sort of intergallactic battle.

The Viking decided to growl at her; peering over rims of thin frames, and resulting in Artemis crossing her arms whilst bracing herself with a heavy widened step. They began an untimely argument, her locking out hips that expressed frayed annoyance, as he yelled from across a room surrounded by three transparent walls and the impacting views of waters spinning all around them. He had given her a direct order to abandon ship, and Artemis had taken accountability for letting a dangerous human detect their location, resulting in the enemy laying fire to their skyboat. Artemis had chosen their last moments to hold contention-filled discourse surrounding her understanding in consequentialism. Both individuals were martyrs to a fault, and their feud was painted in a high-action setting that was futuristic and illustrated with sophisticated and thrilling entertainment.

The two stood in a dead-locked argument: Artemis had retrieved him from being hunted in a game titled Apex, assisting him with an adjudication spell to ensure his victory. He had finally said the magic words: "can they kill each other?". They had almost made it out alive, but the escape plan was foiled by seven-or-eight mongrels. The room was slashed by metallic turbulence: the blurring lights became erratic and violent...their tilting room drew closer to entering an atmosphere. Artemis stood firm in telling the man that his survival would always be more important than hers, at least to those that had evacuated to saftey. There was no way of correcting her wish-washy estimation of their enemies: screaming about the handful of mongrels that had gone unaccounted for. The accidental release of imprisoned monsters had resulted in a fantastical and avertable battle.

The Viking had shifted blame in the conversation; skewed towards analyzing the human error arriving with her delapidated attention span. The crude accusation had pressed Artemis far-beyond the threshold(s) of what little patience she held. Artemis’s piercing voice splashed lightly in comparison to the deep rumblings of destruction. She began throwing arms and pointing in his direction, as they hastily examined his quixotic ideas towards a woman that had blessed them with their current misgivings: breaking his pretentious asseveration with a single question..."where is your woman?" Artemis had avoided all judgement on his partner to divert from the risk of being labeled jealous, and yet, somehow...she was the one standing there before him, and his woman was absent at the defeating moments of battle.

He attempted to question her timing in holding an argument, and so Artemis placidly detached the miniature shield placed proudly over her heart: resigning from duty, and relinquishing herself from any authority he held over the impending situation. She had needed to preoccupy his attention as to entice him nearer in proximity. "How do you think they knew where to find me?!": she could tell by his blanched expression, and lack of eye-contact...that his guilt had led him to hold responsibility in pressing a button of self-destruction before reentry. One last act of heroism could mitigate further casualties of the impending downpour of debris provided by a disaster frantically falling from the sky. They were nearing the end of a solutionless battle.

The woman with a shell would always plant internecine warfare into their friendship from afar. It didn’t matter whether they had been hunted by a human holding the weapon of a spoon, or that of another grasping a marble and hidden candle. The overture had been orchestrated by Artemis’s own misdeeds in enabling people: meaning that the last chance of escaping was his alone to take. Artemis had unleashed his charmed intemperance for her: his eyes became wild and stormy, as he began treading angrily in her direction. His proximity had given her time to press a button of a device hidden away in her small clenched fist: giving chance for the throwing of a gold-filled marble in his direction, as she hedged past him with a whipping ponytail. Artemis recalled smiling at her own wit, brushing by the blade of his wide-set shoulder in one smooth motion. This was to be her last chance to bring balance to a violent and chaotic battle.

The Viking was swallowed by a suit of armour that’d protect him from burning up upon reentry: yelling at the top of his lungs and flailing long arms as he was ejected from the scene and fell swiftly through a blaze of flames. Artemis had raced back to protect him with the last suit left of the un-replenished arsenal. His significant other had stolen suits to protect the escaped criminals she had deemed worthy of saving. He was left falling through the debris: booming his many, many grievances over an intercom, and attempting to swim through the sweeping air...far away from the stern of the impending collision. Artemis left him with a memory of a high set ponytail and silly wave greeting the morning. She had painted him a fair trial; in the fear of the things that had yet come to fruition...knowing he’d sense her worry in legacy. Her vexatious protection for others had caused a tale of horrific casualties, and an onslaught of innocent people being brought into a predetermined battle.

Artemis hadn’t wanted the Viking to be burdened by even a shred of the hopelessness of her own life: it would always be preceived as foreign to him. His need to confer her place in his life was ripped from his grasps moments before he was left whizzing through smoke and clouds. Artemis was confident in her reasons to gift him a final image of his old friend...bowing her head with a smirk, and confidently resting each arm over the seat of his chair. Artemis would dream of a high ponytail, and tears streaming down her face, diving slowly into the precipice of her destiny. The words she had cast so easily onto paper...were bare magic, blended with her love of aesthetic entertainment.

Artemis gave a final command to all those that she had helped eject to saftey: she had wanted to tell them that the Viking had been safely extracted from the emergency with only a few words. His pale life would always overshadow hers. It was only in times of dire desperation where her voice was unexpected and welcome over an intercom system. The impropriety of the sitution would be self-explanitory and not needing context, so she sat calmly in an oversized throne. No amount of fox-like skills could undo, or alter the outcome of a losing battle.

The mellow ringing of death began to concilliate their last argument, luring her closer...welcoming a soldier home. She clutched to the armrest; lightly dabbled a few buttons beneath her fearless fingers in haste and whispering to nobody: "self-destruction sequence initiated". She was alone at last. A free man, adhering to no one...existing in their own right. Free to be angry, disappointed in life, ready to lay life at the doorstep of the unknown. The expectations of others were left thrashing in the wind, much like the metal hull that could be felt frantically splintering away by the second. It was a perfectly poetic ending for an unloved orphan...a person weary beyond all words from the many harms of lifes neverending battle.

Artemis had needed to leave the perpetually old man with the image of her smiling over a proud shoulder...that of a woman leaning into a fate voided by her curse of kyphosis. The wildly specific poem was meant to comfort him alone. The fottered thought of Artemis smiling over a neatly poured drank and bull-shitted over the fact that she reviled in the thought of pulling out the last trick nestled somewhere up her fitted sleeve. He had been one of the only people that took it upon himself to believe in her abilities as a leader, to take warning in her grins and laughter, and to raise the expections of herself. Artemis had needed to remove herself from an equation without a practical solution: if it meant that those she respected were finally safe from being potential pawns in battle.

Artemis had dug her own grave with both men that claimed to love her: one man would be upset that his female "friend" reported that "his wife" had said rude things like "it must be lonely being you". One self-proclaimed enemy was the queen of demoralization, and the other was a self-proclaimed Prince with iniquitous desires and the endless demands for her to be more like another woman in a yellow dress. He was forever blinded by the enumeration given at the hand of a girlish man that claimed to be sunny. Artemis was left defending her home no matter which suitor she selected. Her ability to cast laughter and intelligible conversations was always extinguished by each of these mens choice in "friends", since misery always falls short to those that refuse to engage in battle.

Artemis wasn’t surprised by the snarky or sly blanketed opinion towards her by a man with distrustful grin and a spoon of destiny...he was often witnessed stating lude things like "I just don’t like her.", with a forced laughter and disconcerting smile. He’d follow up the "joke" by stating "did you hear me?!". Artemis was left to be uncomfortable by her own retorts in stating that the feeling was mutual, and needing the silence to consume him. Her softened voice would always managed to offend him. The range of judgement was cast by his own misdeeds, and defined by his obvious lack of empathy. Artemis knew that there was no winning for those accidentally standing in the direct warpath of a closeted narcissist and their chosen battle.

She found mean people to be boring, and decidedly noted that he was only angry at his own inability to uphold fame...without the aid of six men carrying the entirety of the weight launched with his endless insults and jarring laughter. His vocal talent wasn’t enough to depreciate the building suspicion of the public: surrounding his trash personality, and that fucking fact alone...had nothing to do with Artemis the confluencing choice in suitor. She had only wanted the single chance to admire a beautiful and talented man that seemed perpetually lonely standing in the blaring lights of a stage; instead, she stood sentenced to the mercy of five-to-six strangers that migrated their opinions towards her femininity and qualities, as they formed the hobby of depreciating her efforts as a sport. They’d capitulate their votes frequently: stipulating that she was held to the same standards to a military leader heading towards battle.

Artemis had known Orion would always be the first to swat his "friends" hand away...having witnessed him ask for directions for the proper Steps to the Moon. Her smile would gather sincerity, surefire relief that the Prince would be left to learn the steep price of blindly trusting his cohort of "friends". Orion had probably lost too many potential friends over whatever reassuring spell the woman cast in his life, and learned the lesson himself; lulled by the uncomfortable vibes that followed his female friend wherever she went. Artemis would feel a small marble rolling at her feet along the cold floor of the cave, and knew his dense, old-looking "friend" would scramble upon her knees, reaching around in the dark: desperately needing to recast her spell by nightfall. The marble of a polished story, stood as the only thing that would cause the foreign woman to flee a summons to a courtroom, and result in the final abandoning of her self-assigned post; to remain clawing away at Orion and his life. Her intentions were clear as day, for the shrill woman that needed to act as though a friendship was a daunting project, and that romance was only meant to be claimed in the boredom of a undeclared battle.

This is when the Viking would always step in: proudly holding his presence standing beside Artemis forever at a favorable distance. He held fast, as undeniable proof that the judgemental aging man held a gentle understanding...initially believing her truths towards the stranger without boundries or self-respect. The poem would be invaluable in the case she were finally rendured incorporeal, and he’d always be the first to defend her legacy from those that treated her existance as a joke: chalked-up to that of a charicature of who she was. His life was not equipped to compliment a zealous husband and his inability to set boundaries, neither were admirable...which is why their friendship blossomed. Artemis had needed only one ally to amalgamate reason, to reign onto santity...all done in order to move forward in a marital battle.

The Viking would pick up the marble, and momentarily offering a hand-off of the useless glass artifact: skewing his spectacles and peering at it with preponderance, as though it were a diamond on the trading block for auction. Artemis had labelled it with only two words "My dearest". The cunning woman would stand tall, asking for the property with importunity, claiming ownership: stammering and demanding that the red marble be returned at once. Her charms of clarvoyants wouldn’t work on him, as the Viking was only in awe of women of authentic wit, or immense athletic talent...the leech of a human held neither of those qualities. Artemis would always toss back her hair in knowing she held both redeeming qualities...she was an asshole like that. His specific taste in women had been the reason why Artemis stood amid the conversations with his actual partner, both seemed concerned as to how she fit into his life. Artemis was free from the stronghold of a woman untehtered to the Viking, but forever entangled to a man that kept her friendship dear out of his need for comedic entertainment.

He would draw the marble into his palm, knowing it was blue, and bored by the adult stranger that screeching and throwing a public tantrum. He’d calmly just reply "I think I’ll keep it", and drop it into the pocket of his hooded coat. His memories of Artemis were not lies or misgivings, she had meandered into his life and drifted through with consistency, and his judgement could not be skewed by the mere suggestions of a barreling stranger. A blue marble, and a book would be all that he had left of her, and holding such a small artifact on the witness stand would bring him small pieces of comfort. Artemis had only needed to say "I need you to stop the rain now old man", and to know that the man would see the tear drops freely flowing in a courtroom. It had once been the rain they had shared on a morning stroll in the past: recalling her bouncing along at his side with a bubbling stride and flirtatious grin, laughing in objection to his offer of shelter to the rain. She feared not the rain, but only the reign of mankind, its lust for violence, and the unquenchable thirst for battle.

Her smile was gone forever, but the rain now streamed down the faces of those standing in attendance to a trial. Their silent tears had meant they were all in disbelief as to a really, really awful prediction she had cast long before rising to fame as an author and Doctor of people. Artemis shed tears herself in the final phases of editing, as her feminine intution had crafted her death to be wrapped in spectacular sensationalism that held the potential to destroy the world. The lanky and bloated-faced woman would always take offense to men not handing her way in a timely manner, she’d be confused by his confidence: he was just an old and injured man in her eyes. He was somehow beneath her on every shallow aspect...unable to lower himself to the standard pathetic crowd of men that usually took delight in their position as the cowards bending over at her beck-and-call. The woman had built a life around her half-assed qualities of being "every guy’s type": now left to learn the hard way...that Artemis had spent her life developing a personality and a career: she’d be rewarded with loyal friendships and choice in husband, as a direct result. The Viking would disappear into the night: crossing his arms, and standing guard over the corpse of a friend that had admired him wholly in the past with wide eyes and a deminishing laughter: unaware that the encounter had landed him as a witness in a future judicial battle.

Artemis smiled with a wicked delight: bored to death in her manifolded position, as the man dawning white threads and prizing red robes would flirt at a woman in yellow gazing only at Orion. The Prince held enamoured praise to his fellow friends whenever they lived up to his physical standards, convincing himself that only one woman was his type. Artemis liked wearing male threads and playing competitive sports, and wondered if such masculine traits would put him off. She had missed the carefree time before they had been found to be the reincarnations of Moonshine and Valentine. Would she grow tired of masked compliments, or the dulled out criticisms that fell upon her shameless ears whenever she was less-than-picture-perfect to a man that held himself as a self-proclaimed Prince? Such nonsensical rulings had turned a mindful pairing into a dissatisfying battle.

The game was drawn fairly: one man told to swat away the hand of a woman that looked like a hairy frog fish in a golden wig, and the other...told to cast judgment on the slew of friends he held dear, as only one vindictive person held the entire army back. Each man would take off his Heulklip hat whenever they were sincere in their wishes of intended happiness for their talented friend: finally allowed to stand in unveiled silence to the simulation at play. They had forgotten the brave woman that had ventured to an alter, and asked that they help recall the name of someone that had yet to arrive: she vaugely remembered the immense task of soberly listening to the drunk men debliberate. Artemis had only needed an empty room, a table, and five men dancing around it in celebration to break the spell of a peeved Prince: knowing the stubborn man at her door would always inquire as to the rowdy festivities. Orion would always want to be the star of her show, the reason for her attendance in life...a cruel and beautiful distraction meant to carry all forms of lively entertainment.

She would only need to lean on a doorframe and enjoy his hardened face changing, watching admirably as his eyes would dance with the joy of her announcing the dancing men that were praising a small silk-dawning emperor. Five men would kneel as vassels to the fealty of a human that had a glare which could destroy entire armies. They would dap up with their rounded leader that sat in an etched-out throne and lacked object permanence: casting spells of laughter and drooling as a handful of uncles commemorated a hundred days of existing. Her unending dreams of welcoming a ruler of the universe drew her out of the pages of a book, armed to protect her offspring at any costs. Artemis had directed her glares at a door frame, unable to decipher which man was the father to such a gleam of hope to the world. She had thrown Orion and the seven men into a simulation of the recent past...to prove that they were collectively unprepared for such a mature parenting battle.

This would leave one of the six companions kneeling in distraught offense to being left behind in life. He was prominent in misery traits: crowned for being the first in the group to cheat or quit, and the last to participate. He would often mimic other’s sentiments and take credit for the articulate things said by others: resulting in an uncanny demneanor. He was rarely able to give compliments that didn’t somehow involve himself, and held a shit-eating snarl whenever his xenophobia was left on display whilst stomping endless stages. Artemis used Monday to burrow out his true distaste for others, by specifically planting the immature man in BamBams yard for her own uncomfortably earned entertainment.

It was a patterned curse of Choi: to be filled disconsolate disdain one moment, or brimming with falsified sunshine the next. Artemis knew he had entered a rhelm of her dreams: recalling him ushering her into a hallway of terror, and displaying imagery of a Prince in pristine linens in unseemly lighting. Conjuring his own memories of his "friend" with a snarling face, blackened smudged eyes and expanded pores. The dolorous man hid in the shadows of his exceptionally talented friends...believing his intentions would be safe when mixed in the lineup. He seemed able to believe that his lies and false smiles would be hidden from the world...the same way he had hid away his lascivious desires from the world. Artemis had noticed that his own sexuality seemed to be the biggest battle.

Artemis drew a simulation that protected her heart: standing sandwiched in between two white lines, supplanting the simple rules of an ancient game with a few timeless artifacts. She handed one man a piece of chalk, and asked him to draw a single meaningful line with only the intention to impose boundaries upon a friend...that just happened to be female. No wife desereved the terrors brought on by a female lacking the basic understandings or principles of such a simple and mature thought process. Following the rainy trail of Terri and her need to solve the problem of a stepson...women could finally find common ground with such a statement, since only the mentally unstable would be the ones arguing on behalf of fearful reactions to boundaries. Nothing good came from those that allowed crass jokes and the dismantaling of family units to be considered entertainmet.

Artemis then turned to her right, and handed the young man an eraser...stating that he could never cross the line she had cast upon the cave floor, unless he was fully prepared to protect his family. His stringent principles would mean he’d be firm in even looking over at the line: annoyed that she knew he was cast as a "nice guy" and defaulted his image to display his traits in treating those around him like peasants. Artemis had awoken: startled to see him standing at her side. She stood taller and swayed at his beautiful songs as he brought laughter into her life again: he seemed important to her in some way...she was bewildered by whatever events could had torn them apart and rendered them as strangers. She felt guilt in his lack of memory, and unable to shake sense into a man left longing for the attention of another actress thriving in mediocrity of a one-and-done job in the world of entertainment.

His arrogance would prove that it physically pained him to restrict his scouring vision to an abrupt halt at the hardened edge of a soft line. Artemis was cast as invisible at his left. Each man reached for her in loneliness: needing to observe if she wielded a wedding ring on their customary hand, and in doing so: they had ripped her heart in two. What argument had landed her here? Had she had enough of each of their bullshit, and told one man that he’d only be able to return to her life whenever he’d given up on tormenting her with his vulgar judgment and expectations? Had Artemis finally said: "you may cross this line whenever you’re done being mean!" Or, had she told the other man that he could only draw his own line in self-realization, and admittance that his friend was a violent and horrendous person? The self doubt of man was defined by a few lines and a simulation cast worldwide as baseless entertainment.

Artemis had known BamBam had been the first to cross the line of chalk, glaring at a tempermental Prince and missing a lost friendship. His lonely curse was casually broken on a Tuesday by asking himself what was missing in his beautiful and abundant life. He’d wake up, and laugh at the situation...maybe he’d place his hands over knobby knees and dance a bit in front of his two leaders in uncontested jest: dawning his netted hat with a confident dash of le style... despite the fact he didn’t need to anymore. Their shared love of fashions and jaunty moods were more than enough to provide the world with endless entertainment.

She imagined him strolling across the "ominous line of pain and doom" with a light long-stridden step, and asking Artemis of her name in curiosity. The band of men that awoke from their static-filled slumber could only be drawn out of their spells chronologically...in the truthful order of which had missed Artemis. She wanted to prove her worth in deserving friendships as an entity separate to their crowned Prince. Had they begun to realize her intentions in wanting to become the best wife possible, as a woman that believed in moral-driven charm? Artemis had only wanted proof that the massive delay towards making it to a wedding altar towards the path of a Prince hadn’t been her fault in the slightest, and that the two men remaining in the line-up would be the same duo that often took things far-too-personal or too far. Each dude had made it their prerogative to prove that her option in saying yes to the man of her dreams, was parallel to agreeing to being abandoned naked and unarmed in a field of battle.

Artemis had seen the striking Prince of a man searching for her hand: biting his nails in annoyance as time passed. His compulsion to chew at his nails caused her to panic and revert to methods of soothing hair pulling. The obsessive behavior was proof that he had grown restless while searching tirelessly for a woman that held the many, many traits he demanded in a lady. She had seen men from all over the world, and yet he was the only one that made her stop dead in her tracks and blush at his confident-laced grins. "He’s so handsome!" She like many other women, had fallen out of orbit with reality whenever talented men began to dance or seranade the public for entertainment.

Artemis had stood in a vacant cave and informed a mumbling Viking that she took joy in watching the Prince walk away. She’d cat-call his physical attributes in the rump department, and hold up her right arm to gain a high-five from the Viking in approval. The Viking was from another era of musical legends, and so he wasn’t very impressed by a sassy boy-ish man that casually hit on literally every woman with abashing grins and winks from beyond his stages. Artemis didn’t like being left to complete a high-five, but her ability to "pull bitches" was undeniable...by the mere presence of two beautiful men that refused to leave her side. Their attendance had gifted Artemis with a snarling smile, and their need to ignore her told more than any book could...such female charm brought the world into an age of expectancy. Her simulation was one of nightmares: filled with intentions, and a contest formulated around a heroic romantic battle.

Artemis had been mesmerized by the strangers voice, and wondered how nice it’d be to slow dance in his arms. He brought a childish curiosity out of her in the depths of endless forlorn dreams. Artemis had felt Orion searching behind him, taking a step back from the beak of the woman standing far-too-close: needing to grab Artemis by the hand in reassurance that she was real and still existed. The unwed Princess crossed her arms in defiance to the two men that had spent a light-year avoiding confrontation. Neither would admit that her decision was weighed by the two desperate randoms that posed as the black holes in their lives. No wife is ever equipped for such a volitile and thankless battle.

Artemis was a natural-born leader, so she’d always be left taking accountability for herself and standing as a shield for people that needed aid for minor infractions. Each man would be hindered by a person that had been given massive amounts of privilege, and each would be famed for their ability in making excuses as to why they’d fallen behind, or had been forced to surrender. One man had been prematurely awarded for his handsome looks, and gifted with the role of being the handsomest of a group of seven mildly-athletic men. His lacking personality, would leave him standing behind those that could fly, or hold their own charismatic talent to the foreground. He learned to say less, and to smile and laugh to detract from his less-charming qualities. It was easy to be lost in the shuffle and stunted in maturity in a world of shallow entertainment.

One woman would jerk her neck in stark and unnatural angles: holding out her lies, insisted on being upfront and center stage to a man she had easily discarded in her youth. Prominent for her shrill verbal lashings: she was famed for having treated him like human garbage, publicly making ugly "jokes" about his youthful mistakes in drinking too much as funny antics over dinner. Orion had turned his back to Artemis: ashamed that she had grown tired of defending a friendship that smelled of failure. Artemis assumed he liked being emasculated, and eventually became offended that he audaciously demanded that Artemis be friendlier to a woman that openly called herself a girl. Orion had asked her why she was angry at the simple request, and she had resorted to angrily saying..."I know everything...she told me everything". He seemed unforgiving to the notion, and unable to decipher the depth of her whatever narritive the vile "girl" had dug out for reasons of bored entertainment.

Orion had vacated her life in an instant: unsure of what solution could remedy his life; turning in worried circles, needing to find the specifications of her accusatory comment. The only thing more dangerous than openly loving a narcissist...is being stuck between the option of loving a narcissist, and admiring another person with narcissist tendencies. Artemis had structured a game to help weigh her options as to which to marry, and which to admire...providing the darkening world with endless entertainment.

Artemis wondered if she had been wrong: there was a growing chance of marrying a Prince, and to live "almost" happily ever after. She had no idea at this point, and was excited to see how the story would pan out. Both men were truant: the game was set to lean fairly, and she ready to salute the suitor that arrived first with the opportunity to ask her hand in marriage. She’d learned the art of practiced-patience, and spent little efforts towards the things that were out of her control. Instead: she enjoyed the depreciating time left reserved for the doating elders called her "parental units", and laughed as they brought up facts towards the unwed status on the rare occasion. They congratulated her for the wise choices she made daily: commending her ability to dedicate herself to sobriety, and pitying the few stories that trickled and rived from the dark past of her orphaned days. The rewarding commitment to mental health was her favorite form of battle.

Artemis jogged slowly: smiling at the steady pace in which her body healed itself. Nothing could stop her from living life to the fullest. Artemis prepared for her future by taking a step back from her life, and finally asking herself: "what do I want to do?". Turns out nobody had ever asked her such a simple question, and she hadn’t believed that it was within her rights to even do so. The answer was unembellished and straight forward...having wanted to finish her athletic career strongly, and to better hone the skills she held in writing: for the sake of her education, and a cursed book with unlimited potential. The most difficult of trials were to come: those tightening the grip on a loosening tapestry, and weaving trims laced with the pugnacious longing for a celestial battle.

Artemis wanted to quit her shitty hourly job, and return to better preparing for a career. Adult shit. The undemanding practicality of her wishes helped express a portraiture of a woman holding out the small wings of an Eagle and cocking her head in pejorative defiance to two simple words that slipped sharply over her tongue. Artemis had accepted the ashen debris of the catastrophic wreckage that remained as scarring to the aftershock that was her orphaned past: the rage seething in her anguished heart had almost settled, and opportunity now actively sought her out. The looted rewards brought on by soberly believing in herself...had begun to appear from every direction. She no longer feared the confusing stories brought on by her druken past, having conquered the hardest part of such a shameful battle.

Artemis was finally at peace with the horrific things of her past, forgiving herself for an abortion that allowed her to flee an abusive lover, and asking forgiveness of a lost furry companion that had always deserved a better parent. Artemis now wished for realistic things...comfort in a crowd of drunken assholes, or more time to enjoy the simple nuances in life: before children became her sole reason for existing. She took bratty joy in being loved as an only child to two parents that had never wanted their own, and a woman that longed to be loved in a maternal way. They were happy to be a family built around education, and an unforgiving world spinning on the axis of endless entertainment.

She was eternally the lone child singing and dancing, as she piped in at random times and asked that they observed her lack of rhyme of rhythm. There would never be enough time for her to write how much they meant in her life, and it left her with only the option of finding reasons for them to gather and celebrate their abilities in raising a spare child. Artemis would pridefully carry home a torch, showing them her diplomas and inviting them to cheer her on in sporting events. The revelation of sobriety had given Artemis a new life, and the second chance to test her strength and press past limitations. She’d often randomly pull at her cloth like a child, showing off her abs without reason...like a child platforming information nobody had asked for, and providing the three performers with meaningless youthful entertainment.

Artemis had began her journey needing to correct the Indigenous Warriors that had dared to call her a Tsunami; a bearer of destruction, but by her last few chapters...she had decided that they were far too intoxicated to even argue with. Artemis had rotated her views, and used her voice to abandon their condescending "Traditions". They were audacious in their efforts to prove that Artemis bore the pastiche sins of her ancestors, and in turn: Artemis began to yell into the void of their expectations. She was told to be quiet, as the elders called her Tsunami to her face. Artemis had took it upon herself to stand at the narrow end of a table meant for warlords. She waited until their beady eyes stood uncontested to her position in the world...silently smiling and bowing as the world surrounding them began to agree with the chaotic brand Artemis had crafted for herself. Her birth name of "Divine Tsunami" would forever mean the beginning and end all to any battle.

Artemis had remixed the expectations that were engraved in her essence. She was a woman of "Tradition"...after all. It had given her strength to laugh in the faces of the men that had doubted her, unsure as to why they’d convinced themselves that she’d destroy the world if only to prove a point. Artemis had only the intentions to rearrange their beliefs, and by doing nothing...she had proven that the mere specter of her success intimidated all those that had walked before her. She had come to reason that men came in three forms, The good...The bad...& The Fake. Their legacy displayed the evince in powerlessness to the apt might of Artemis, whose efforts had rendered her armed and equipped with countless brave men...those that were prepared to follow her to the edge of time and space, as she alone led them fearlessly into battle.

Artemis set forth with the goal of finding a team to retire her jersey with: needing to end her career on high-note. She hadn’t wanted for critical fame or elongated tours, but only for a team that was proud in the trials she hid behind a leather bound sphere. She had concluded that such violence wasn’t meant for the world to observe, and pondered the worthiness held in her own athletic talents. Artemis was living her childhood dreams at a late age, but was beholden to displaying her gratefulness to those in attendance to her hard work, those that cheered on her athletic ability and sustained the wherewithal to do so. The attainable wish was more valuable to her life than it had ever been in the past, and it brought a focused determination into her heart: carrying herself in a way that was felicitous and unwavering. She could finally close her eyes and imagine such grand moments of brandishing stable hands and an immovable smile. Her weapons were no longer dripping with blood or lust, but sat stagnant at her sides: dull and in need of refined polishing from having been eagerly wielded and scrawled over the walls around her in records that portrayed the accumulated trials of a never ending poetic battle.

Artemis swayed in her madness: contented with her day, and proud of her ability to run errands and buy fine linens without guilt. She was mirthful with the simplicity of checking in on a biweekly basis, as her jocular tone explained that her financials were caught up enough to finally slumber in peace. She’d eat fermented cabbages with sacred corn: chomping on the supplements as loudly and holding shinning glutonous cheeks as she desired. Her daydreams were replaced with those of setting foot on a wooden court again: participating for herself, and without the reassurance that a man would reward her efforts in being awesome. She had wanted to reclaim her athletic talents without the chances of one man downplaying her skills out jealousy to the men that took facination in her ability to lead a team in a bloodless, and highly competitive battle.

Artemis had learned gratitude for the many small things that transpired all around the fires that lay waste to the land. Her life was beautiful. The days were far more precious without a thunderous man demanding the world from her...or, without a shining stranger pleading that she change every fiber of her being. Artemis had used a simulation to prove that both men were resisting from offering a shred of respect when she tried to accommodate such foul suggestions. She had finally found sobering solitude in existing, and an audience of strangers that awaited her presence to read to them the unsolved mysteries of life, taking intrigue in her passion for life...her wording meant to seperate a world of homicide from being lumped in with harmless entertainment.

Artemis had redeemed herself at the edge of space, at the brim of madness, and took it upon herself to turn around and begin to weep. Nothing could bring back Ryan from the depths of death, but she could move forward from the past; knowing he had been her first and only true fan. His presence in her life had been enough for her to draw a sword of truth, and begin slashing away at the root of her many grievences in life. One drunken day she had seen the frightened eyes of her favorite person: Jasmin. Artemis awoke from a daze, consuming her mirrored fractions as a lovely niece stood petrified: she was afraid of witnessing Artemis clenching a glass bottle that offered bottomless drank. She had been the only person to refuse in observing or participating in the natural disaster of a woman looking for a sloppy exit from life. Her glare said more than any lecture Artemis could dispell, as she was fearful by the enabling that transpired...anguished by her aunts open struggle with a substance abuse battle.

Artemis had almost dismantled her entire life, and crawled to the finish line of her own expectations: returning home, and asking for forgiveness and help from the Kind-Hearted Hunters that had once opened their home and hearts to protect Artemis from herself. She laid out the truths of her life: stating "I don’t want to remember the things that happened before you guys found me." or "I’m afraid to be alone again." The haunting words of a child left unattended in dangerous environments were forever without elaboration, as Artemis knew the trauma could leak into the subconcious to all those that now protected her from an apathetic world. Her bare words were often more than enough to bring those who cared to stand read at attention to accomidate the mountain of trauma that occassionally buried her ability to exist in peace. Only eternity could mend the unspoken traumas of a person thrown into oblivion, forced to crawl through life out of negligance of a cummunity. No amount of wealth could cure the depths of dispair given to one person...and Artemis was now able to admit her folly in believing that such an existance was without the title of a futile and unprovoked battle.

The three Kind-Hearted hunters conjectured as to what she had wanted out of her life, and so she stared off blankly and disarmed her antagonized grin. "I don’t really want to do anything most days." It took her by suprise when they had nodded in agreement and explained that her distaste for life was "understandable." Artemis pointed to an obscure bench: sitting whimsically with her toes pointed to the East, and reflecting upon the question profoundly weeping at the fact she was chained to the title of a drunk...until her life fell into place with minimal effort. Her family said kind things like "I know you’re trying your best", and "thank you for sharing that with me", until her heart was mended enough to grapple with the harsher side of the things she couldn’t undo: the side-effects that came from her embarrassing struggle with a poison fueled by self-hatred. Life had always been unkind to her, and a forgetful potion had made her disoriented, banshee-like on some nights or the life of the party on others. There was no reliable way to calibrate for such an unpredictible battle.

Artemis had spent her whole life working towards a better life, and finally held the epiphany that she had done enough. A fallen Goddess swatted at her own hand, screaming into the abyss "enough!", dropping a glass bottle upon the cave floor. There, she began sobbing at the fear of the monster willingly released into the world. Artemis had once suffered abuse for breaking glassware by pure accident, and felt the ringing of terror deep within her consciousness. The uncontrollable sobbing growled heavily so, causing the cave walls to rattle, and enkindled a familiar horror-washed sound in her ears. The shreds of shattering glass riffed a terror-filled melody to echo in her every waking moment. Nothing could change the traumas projected upon a unprotected child, left to the abuses of an awful woman named Carmen; a stranger that had violated human rights out of her need to seek "entertainment".

The unforgivable crime of being careless sent a shiver up Artemis’s spine: her complex post-traumatic stress brought out her abusive childhood on any given day. Artemis fell to her knees: apologizing with illimitable fear, and frantically attempting to clean the mess with shaking hands before an inevitiable storm of abuse followed. Her niece would never understand the horrors Artemis and her sister Athena had survived, but she assisted in halting her tears, after seeing a side of her aunt that was too often hidden away from the world. The niece had been tasked with replacing her glass bottle with another, watching tirelessly as Artemis dropped them one after another. There seemed to be no room for mistakes in her world. Someone had abused Artemis enough into believin that food and water and sleep were a right to be earned. Athena was forever punching at her own reflection, and Artemis left dropping glasses filled to the brim with empty hope. Artemis had wanted to break the curse, laying waste to an ugly tapestry that offered bountiful royalties...wanting desperatly to invest in her sisters mental health, and hoping to save her from the trauma she often ran away from. No amount of wealth could properly make up for their shared traumas as orphans...thrown into a pit with monsterous individuals, but Artemis could invest in those able to press charges against horrendous crimes that had no statute of limitation. One option offered answers and or, the admitance of guilt, but there was no direct way out of the other particular battle.

Artemis had found a way around the darkness altogether; sharing arguments, laughter and fermented tea with a cutesy niece. Athena had always liked that her little sister and niece took happiness in existing near one another in fanciful cloth, presenting smiles as though they were the dolls she had never been given. Life was easier for Athena when things looked perfect. Artemis had recklessly avoided speaking on the truths of her childhood abuse and the bladed hands that had "prepared her" for lifes battle.

Artemis enjoyed what little time she had left standing upright, and her niece politely listened to her journey in becoming an auntie. They had fond memories of Artemis displaying her heartbroken sadness from having been abandoned by a tall and temperamental man, and laughed together watching with perplexed expressions at the chaotic friendship of seven men in fine-linens. Artemis had told her niece of the childish crush she held for a petty boyish-man that offered an angelic voice, as he slowly healed her heart with his fanciful allure. The woman felt a spell of sighs and confusion around his actions, as though the man was designed to be complimenting accessory to her life...they seemed so familiar to her dreams. She had found the Princes speaking voice to be calming in a familiar way, even through a thick and broken accent, and saw his need to be armed with endless arguments to be enduring, as a quirky form of unexpected entertainment.

These were simply the tales of blind muse: a woman with a stone-y glare, and love of Justice. The story of a woman wailing out of physical pain as she "haunted" the shit out of an empty cave, and casting doubt upon the ugliness she had endured as an orphaned child. A pleading to the Gods, to bear witness to two women forever fighting for their lives and longing to be loved and understood. There was no place in the world for the two sisters, touched by pederast; their cloths forever torn. The two Godesses without life behind their eyes had forgotten all that had been promised to them at birth...the unalianable right to live, the justifiable choice in the pursuit of liberty and happiness. Artemis now concocted a plan of attack that would correct the wrongs done to her body, her mind...if only to give way to slumber free from termoil and without the echoes leftover from a past horrific battle.

Artemis had rose to the occasion, standing as a legend: a Goddess among mortal men, cursed to take a throne out of paralyzed foreboding, and blessed with a smile that covered a majority of her face. This was a mere Odyssey of a woman scorned by love, forever left to pick up the pieces of the messes men crafted at their own hand. They had done this to her. The citizens had done nothing when Artemis was raped as an infant, and paved the way for Athena to be trafficked as young woman. Artemis was ok with sounding harsh in stating that death was the great equalizer. She was comfortable in stating that those around her deserved the death of a thousand suns: if it meant she could stand witness to their suffering. Her need to save children without protectors led to a short epic-poem drawn by way of blood, and the sacrifices of a forgotten Princess; too drunk to care on her worst days. Artemis had grown to be a woman worth fearing, able to calmly claim her royal title: A red girl…with untamable hair, and the vexed Yurok name of Brave in Battle.

Next Chapter: *[ \ ] Artemis and the Big Lie*