Disclaimer: I don't own DNAngel.

AN: ...Scribbles, it's all your fault.

The fire wrapped around him like a blanket. Such was his bed at night. He slept in the very hottest, purest flames, in the heart of the fire itself. Such was his home. When he was angry, the flames flared and licked about the Earth like living demons. When he was down heartened and dispirited the flames simmered quietly, trying to kiss away his tears.

In a million year's time, they would claim him to be the god whose both hair and eyes likened the deep red and the deep passion of the fire itself.

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She was beautiful. She spent her time looking over herself and up keeping her image. Beauty is as Beauty does, they say now. She was unchallenged by any in the area of looks, and was far superior than any in a matter of charm. Her manners and elegance justified her haughty and conceded view of the world. The fact that she was a goddess placed her superior to mortals by birth anyway.

They say that her children were born with precious gems about their fingers, hence the 'ring' aristocratic mortals would wear to prove their blood and fortune.

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If it was missing, it was his fault. If it was broken, it was his fault. If a prank was pulled, the finger didn't even need to be pointed, he was already to blame. 'Mischief' was his game and 'Deity' was his name. He had a habit of claiming that 'Mischief' was also his middle name, but that was never proven, since it was doubted that the Gods were even given last names, let alone middle names. But who's to refute a god?

They say that his forte was thievery, but that any other sort of trouble-making wasn't beyond him.

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They said that his blue eyes could speak of oncoming storms. They said that if you looked deep into his eyes, you could learn to read the seas. For if his eyes were turbulent with mixed emotion, the waters would be riddled with undercurrents and low crests. Even the waves wouldn't be able to decide on a direction to roll. If his eyes shed a tear, the waves would pull back form the shore, taking comfort only in each other and distancing themselves from the beaches. But as his sadness left him and his wit and spite returned, the waves would rush back to the shores, reaching towering heights, and touching high grounds that had never been touched by the sea's waters.

He also, they said, had control of the frozen water, and that when he caught the snow in his hands it didn't melt as it would have in a mortal's hands, but that it's temperature would drop even lower, instead. They said that his touch was so frigid that when he slipped off his shoes, he could walk upon the water, as his bare feet would freeze it's surface.

They say that when he finally found a mortal he believed worthy of admiration, he would hug them, inadvertently chilling their bodies and souls to the point that their body would never again become warm, and their life was sent to the underworld, away from him. And thus he would be left alone once again.

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The tales say that whenever the wind blows, fierce or gentle, it's his doing. It's because he's thinking. When he is mellow and content, and the matters on is mind do not trouble him, he will close his wings and lazily flap his mighty wings in satisfaction. When he was angry - which was any time that he was confused, surprised, frustrated, or gotten the better of - he would swipe at the world with his sharp white feathers.

The tales say that he and the god of the waters were closely connected. When the sea was angered and it flared with vengeance, the wind would be angered by the fact that he was upset. The winds would cut and whip about in violent storms with the ocean's crests and waves. They never comforted each other, only raged for the other's behalf.

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Her thumbs, they say, were literally as green as the leaves on the trees, and her eyes, they claim, were the deep green of the moss. Her hair, they say, was as light to the breeze as the branches in the great, old oak trees. When she planted a flower, it grew to sizes and beauties unmatchable by any other. When she cursed a field, it became barren ad dead, never to be revived, regardless of how the mortals tried. It rained, they say, because she was watering all of Earth's plants at once, for she cared far too much for all of them to dare miss one. Flowers bloomed, they say, because she kissed each of them one at a time. Fruit, they say, was borne on the leaves that caught the spells she whispered into the wind.