Roll up, roll up. Welcome to the Circus of Thorns...
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To punish the gods of old, the rising religion known as the Church of the Golden Goddess, imprisons them in the legendary Circus of Thorns. Bound by dark magic they're forced to entertain t...
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The Circus of Thorns rose slowly against the early dawn, the creeping light rousing its residents, finding cracks in carriage doors, slicing through bars into shadowed cages and slinking its way under the cloth of the Big Top. Yawns swallowed and limbs stretched as they dragged themselves from the lingering warmth of beds, from echoing dreams.
Odin's cane clacked loudly as he made his way down the steps of his tiny carriage, the morning breeze tugging at his beard. For over a century, he'd taken this walk upon waking. Around him, the circus, the living, breathing thing that it was, took its first deep gulp of air. The acrobats and clowns and riders, their blood laced with ichor and curses, ate breakfast between caring for horses, mending holes in costumes and rehearsing routines for that night's show. The sweeping wind curled and twisted around the circus, bringing him the whispers he'd been waiting for from cities far away.
It was a short walk for Odin to his favourite chair, grumbling as he sank into the soft wood. A god he may be, but an old god he was, and even he suffered from the pains that war left in its wake. His knee ached in any weather, but it roared particularly loud in the rain.
He could hear Athena's gentle movements next to him, smell the fire in front of her carriage boiling water for the black leaves she'd grown so fond of. Athena put a cold tankard in his hand and settled into the chair next to him. Groaning, the goddess knew of war wounds as much as he. He sipped the sweet mead and leaned back. Odin may have lost an eye to war, but for some things, the god of war didn't need to see.
"Do you feel it?" he mumbled gruffly to his old friend. Cautiously, aware that the ears of the Church were all around.
"I do."
"Today," Odin began, the sound of horses pulling a wagon interrupted his words. "... the next horn shall blow. First, it was the roses and now... now she comes."
"Yes." The goddess of warfare made a low humming sound, a purr of pleasure. The smell of blood, of gunpowder - it was close now. "Will you warn him?"
Odin shook his head, and Athena sighed. Like him, she had grown fond of the boy.
There was a grunt, a great thud, and their beloved Strongman leapt off the wagon. He was an easy man to admire, whether it was the blood of the gods threading through his veins that granted him his ethereal beauty as well as his strength, no one knew for certain. River muttered his gratitude's to the driver and then paused, as if the burden he carried, a sorrow, weighed too heavily on him to walk. A fair man pushed low by a night devoid of grace.
With a subtle creak, their Ringmaster opened his door, walking down the steps of his carriage. Athena clicked her tongue.
"River!" He called, walking toward the growing swell of roars and cries coming from the animal tent. River changed his course, following Villeneuve's direction. His footsteps even slower, even heavier.
Odin and Athena followed River's movements, lost in their own thoughts about what was to come. Of a war stealthily, silently making its way towards them. A war to heat the blood of old gods who longed for battle, a war to chill the hearts of mortals whose allegiance to an alluring lie they'd learnt to regret.
