Prologue: A Lady's Pride

Netherworld: Balcony

Persephone Killgore didn't consider herself a judgmental person, quite the opposing mindset according to some of her sister's-in-law. She was simply very opinionated. And she was entitled to her opinion, as was she entitled to the ability to share it. The old adage of "if you don't have something nice to say…" was a load of, well, shit. She tried to avoid using language like that, even if only mentally. It tarnished her image to speak that way, and thinking it was a step towards speaking it. Yes, she'd slipped up a bit during her "misadventure" upon Middle Earth, but she figured she deserved a by on that. She had been on the receiving end of some of the worst luck in the history, with a minor bit of poor execution/overlooking details.

Coming back to her opinionated nature, she was doing her very best to bite her tongue as her father led her, what, "niece?" No, her nephew's wife, whatever the correct term for that was. Anyway, Samus was finally getting back into the house after some extensive reconstructive surgery. There were no marks, obvious even if she hadn't known about her father's plans for the durium replacement implants. She knew that because she had walked in on the newest member of the family changing out of the tacky hospital gown. As a small side note, she was incredibly amused by how out-of-sorts Samus was over being put in a skirt. The woman had been red in the face for the last five minutes, getting fussed over by Aunt Sophitia, whom she knew was the one who had picked the skirt out.

She looked down at the dainty cup of tea in her hand, a nice oriental blend, and muttered to herself. "Nearly die during sex, suddenly the center of attention. Makes sense I suppose." She snickered lightly. "I know she won't be doing that again."

A voice slithered into her ear. "Mocking the weak, are we daughter?"

She let out a small yelp, nearly spilling her tea, as she turned. "Daddy, don't DO that!"

Her father straightened up from whispering in her ear. "Don't get me wrong, you are well within your rights to do so. You are the daughter of the god of Evil, with all the implications that carries." Currently Erasmus was not wearing his helmet, so she could see the man smiling. "Just try to keep that sort of talk to a minimum around family." There was a pause in which her father's grin grew a tad wider. "Who knows, they might start to grow on you if you take the time to socialize."

She shot a glance over at the crowd. "I think, Samus right? I can't fathom that we have all that much in common if she's that uncomfortable in a simple skirt." She put one delicate hand to her chest to emphasize her point. "I am a feminine lady who likes feminine things. Something she seems to care not one whit for."

The god's grin twisted into a smirk. "Maybe so. But she is self-conscious enough to be embarrassed about her attire. I don't imagine it would take much persuasion, or cajoling if you prefer, to stick Samus in a dress, particularly from you. Think of how amusing that would be."

She did entertain the thought, and it did seem pretty funny. "Are you seriously advocating for me to give Samus heck, just for laughs?"

The man's smirk showed a smidge of teeth. "If you like, consider it hazing. I know you, Persephone. You enjoy needling others, and Samus is an easy mark that is unlikely to retaliate." The smirk evaporated. "And I would much rather you torment Samus than your sibling or nephew, or me, or any of your aunts."

She let out a false, uneasy laugh. "No, ah, I'd never dream of pulling a prank on you again. Never, never again."

Her father had recently dropped the hammer on her and Acheron's prank war. And he had done so in an inspired, and malevolent fashion. Acheron had been punished with a curse of impotence put in the flask of rum that the self-titled pirate always carried around. A curse that had lasted for three months. Three months without fulfilling sex, because she knew damn well that Acheron had tried anyway, was tantamount to torture for her brother. She, she had been cursed to have her hair fall out, very nearly torture for someone as admittedly vain as she was. In addition her magic had gone completely haywire, usually backfiring horribly, explosively, and right at her fingertips. Also for three months. She still got a twinge of fear whenever she summoned her magic. But the message had been crystal clear, DON'T FUCK AROUND IN THE HOUSE!

Her father added something else with a smile. "Besides, Bjorn will probably get a kick out of it, provided whatever you do is within reasonable taste." The smile turned malefic. "After all…" She could have sworn the entire area grew darker. "I'm sure none of us here wish another corrective measure to be taken, no?"

She felt the blood drain from her face. "No, no no no. I'm very certain of that."

Like a switch, her father's face resumed its cool, yet jovial expression. "Fantastic. Now, what will your first order of business be? A full princess dress with all the bells and whistles? I think that would be quite amusing, no?"

In spite of her slowly dwindling terror over her father's promise of "corrective measures" she did think about the suggestion. She knew exactly what her elder was getting at. After all, she had one of those exact dresses she dearly liked to wear for occasions in which she wouldn't be called upon to dance. As pretty as it was, she somehow always seemed to develop two left feet whenever she wore it. And that was in spite of never tripping on the hem.

She coughed lightly, and finished her tea in one long sip. "As much as I do enjoy this conversation, I do have matters elsewhere I must attend to. You understand."

Proving her right, the response she got was one of a knowing eyebrow twitch. "Ah, and this would be that world you were softening for conquest. The one in which you were surreptitiously using Bjorn as a battering ram?"

Her mood plummeted again. "Er, yes, that one."

Her father gave her a neutral gaze. "Persephone, you do realize that none of us take issue with your actions, especially not Bjorn. What we take issue with is you simply doing it without letting anyone else know, and treating Bjorn like a pawn."

She had a habit of rolling her eyes at this, more so when it came from someone like her mother, or aunts. When it came from her father, she listened, even though she had been hearing it multiple times since she'd been caught out by Bjorn mentioning the adventuring. The lesson was not lost on her, but she was very, very upset over the fact that she was going to be limited to the thrice damned minions. They stank, they stared like lechers, they broke everything unless constantly monitored and told otherwise. She was more likely to obliterate them than any enemies were!

Eventually, she earnestly answered her father's comment. "I, I know. But, you know I just don't do close quarters. Bjorn loves that sort of thing, so I just didn't, ah, never mind. That sounds like an excuse even to me."

The god's expression melted into a smile. "Well, at least you admit it. Progress is progress." Her father gestured towards the walls of the Netherworld. "Are you setting off immediately? Or do you have a moment?"

She was the type to jump to conclusions. She was working on it, but nonetheless she had to assume that her father was going to give her something. He'd done the same thing for Bjorn, what with that utterly enormous sword. Acheron had gotten gifted that absurd mace, not that he used it all that much now that he could freely manifest different firearms with, she so often forgot that thing's name, Soul Calibur. She was the only one that hadn't received a gift weapon from her father. But, then again she hadn't really had the ambition to go out on her own before. And she'd sort of ambushed her father and brother for that little Middle Earth excursion.

She followed her father down a flight of stairs and deeper into the obsidian monolith that was their home, and as she did she, at least in tone, innocently aired the appropriate question. "So, what is this thing you need a moment of my time for?"

Erasmus looked over his shoulder as he walked, smirking lightly. "Don't feign ignorance, daughter. You're a smart girl, you know exactly what this is about."

Suspicions confirmed she shut up and walked in silence, focusing primarily on her father's broad, armored shoulders while placing her heels just so to avoid slipping or anything else embarrassing. Certainly, she could void the problem posed by her footwear by simply wearing something more practical, say, she shuddered to consider it, simple boots. But, as her father had mentioned only a little while ago, she was the daughter of a god. That carried with it certain prerogatives. And first among those in her mind was a license to be as impractical as she darn well pleased. A trait she shared with her mother, truth be told. So she would wear a dress and heels on a journey into hostile territory, and she'd look fantastic while doing it.

Her father stopped and she almost bumped into him, realizing shortly afterwards that they had, logically, arrived in Erasmus's personal forge. Different only, insofar as she could tell, in its isolation from meddlesome minions and potential distractions. She'd watched him work here once, for a short time. It had been a singularly monotonous experience. Perhaps her mother or aunts derived some erotic satisfaction from watching her sire beat metal into shape with a large hammer/his bare hands, typically while bereft of clothing from the waist up, but she did not. She would have been quite disturbed if she did.

Erasmus approached the anvil in the center of the space, a finely engraved thing that stood on a small dais an unbearably short distance from the molten metal basins behind it, at least for her, and retrieved a long, silvery rod before offering it to her. "I hope I wasn't too presumptuous when deciding what to make you." The god used a wisp of hellish flame to erase a blemish that only he could see. "You never seemed to really take to any of the weaponry I provided when you were somewhat younger. It seemed to me that a casting focus would be more appropriate, given some leeway for utility."

In the midst of her father's idle musing she accepted the staff, a gleeful smile crossing her face as her fingers likewise crossed up and down the length of the shaft. Her slender fingers found easy purchase on the textured metal, metal carved intricately with hundreds of unique arcane runes the size of a fingernail. The base featured a convenient blade roughly twenty centimeters in length. Nothing all too impressive, but far better than nothing if she were pressured and unable to blow the offender away with a spell. But, given her preference for ranged combat, she found the crown, quite literally, of the staff the most delightful. Barbed with soaring spines arranged in a perfect circle, the tines suspended an arcane gem in their midst. Her delight soared further when she realized that the gem in question was the very one she had given to her father for his birthday some years ago, albeit amplified to astounding levels.

At her delighted exclamation her father started smiling. "I'll take that as a sign that I've done well."

She scowled lightly. "Daddy, you really need my approval for something like this?"

A smirk. "Oh, no, I know that I've done a good job. I accept nothing less from myself. It just pleases me that you like it." The god reached out and tapped the gem. "Anything happens, you remember this; I may have more raw power than you by a mile, your own words, but you, you are the most talented mage I have ever encountered. Remember that."

Hearing that praise made her heart swell with pride. And it made her think of all the times, growing up, that she'd come up with something new, usually something geared towards widespread destruction. Her father would drop everything, suspend an active military campaign even, just to race home and see whatever she'd done. When she was thirteen, she'd actually asked if she could go with him and use it. She'd expected to hear a "no" like every time before, but he'd let her. He'd held her hand and led her right to the front lines. And she'd brought fire and lightning down from the sky over ninety square miles, bringing ruin to an entire country. It had been glorious.

Her father spoke up. "Now then, this world you intend to conquer. Tell me about it, because I'm sure you've done your due diligence on it."

She smiled lightly. "Oh, nothing too much interesting. A church that worships a demon named Sparda, rampant hideous demons, general fun stuff. I intend to make the demons do most of my dirty work." She leaned on her staff experimentally, finding it more than adequate in that regard. "But my first order of business is visiting this gaudy church in the biggest city. Their big shot priest is going to be pontificating, or whatever it is priests do. I'm going to kill him after the service, cause some unrest."

The god didn't verbally answer. Instead, all he did was quizzically raise an eyebrow. She took it as a good sign that he wasn't questioning her plan. It said he believed in her, even if he said that frequently already.