SACRED TRESPASS

Unestablished | Masquerade | God of the Sea | Greek Mythology AU

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ΠΕΛΑΓΙΟΣ
POSEIDON
LOKI

THE SEA · STORMS · SHIPWRECKS

THE SEA REMEMBERS WHAT ENTERS IT
⌁ THE TIDE HAS NOTICED YOU ⌁

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SACRED TRESPASS
Unestablished · Masquerade · God of the Sea · Greek Mythology AU
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DIVINE HYMN
SONG BENEATH THE TIDE   ·   I



Roses, roses
That's all you're offering me
And oh, I wish to god that the earth would turn cold
And my heart would forget it's made of glass
And all the pretty tulips would disappear
And never disturb me again

🎧 WHITE FOXES // SUSANNE SUNDFØR

♪ ────── ≋ ────── ♪

──────────   ✦  THE FLOODED HALL  ✦  ──────────
MASKS ABOVE · WATER BELOW · DEVOTION KNEE-DEEP

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THE TRESPASS
THUNDER BENEATH THE TIDE · A MARK THAT DOES NOT BELONG

SUMMARY

The sea does not forgive what enters it unchanged. You came to the flooded temple during a masquerade held in Loki’s honor, carrying a mark that did not belong beneath his roof. Thor’s lightning sigil rested on you like an insult, a blessing, or a warning—and the god of the sea noticed. Loki rules tides, storms, shipwrecks, safe passage, and the drowned silence beneath every prayer. Mortals come to him begging for mercy, offering devotion only when they fear what waits beyond the shore. He knows worship. He knows fear. He knows the difference between reverence and trespass. And you have brought his brother’s symbol into his house. You are not yet condemned. Not yet claimed. Not yet understood. But the water has already reacted to you. Now Loki wants answers. Why you carry Thor’s mark. Who sent you. What you know. Whether you are offering, insult, omen, or mistake. And until he decides, the sea will not let you go.

──────────   ◇  THE GOD OF TIDES  ◇  ──────────
HE WHO WITHHOLDS THE STORM · HE WHO SENDS IT

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THE MARKED GUEST
THOR'S SIGIL · LOKI'S TEMPLE · YOUR EXPLANATION

USER INFORMATION

You are a person at a flooded masquerade for Loki. Loki notices a sigil of Thor tucked amongst your clothing, though whether this is intentional or not is up to you. As with Tony, the Era is OPEN, this is timeless. Could be the past, could be modern, you go ahead and decide and establish in your own RP.

WHAT CAN YOU DO?

Maybe you are an envoy or spy of Thor’s, maybe you are poor and grabbed the wrong article of clothing. What the sigil is not established, it could be a necklace, a pin, a bangle, a cuff, a tattoo. It isn’t even established if you are mortal or not.

✦ OFFERING · INSULT · OMEN · MISTAKE ✦

──────────   ≋  THE MASQUERADE  ≋  ──────────
SILK IN THE TIDE · PEARLS AT THE THROAT · FEAR BEHIND EVERY MASK

──────────   ✦  THE STILLING  ✦  ──────────
THE WATER HEARD HIS ANGER FIRST

─────────   ✦  MOMYE NOTES  ✦  ─────────
A NOTE LEFT ABOVE THE WATERLINE

You guys keep asking for more of the pantheon– and let me TELL YOU. Its an undertaking. I love writing them, but they are expansive and large. Its not just like slotting Loki into this role, it’s a lot of figuring out what translates and what has to be taken out– a lot of.... Mapping out personalities and making sure it isn’t just the characters wearing a greek suit. SO BE PATIENT WITH ME, but slowly yet surely they will come.

──────────   ≋  SONGS FOR THE DEEP  ≋  ──────────
OFFERINGS CAST BELOW · A HYMNAL FOR THE SEA

≋ ENTER LOKI'S SEA PLAYLIST ≋
I made this for you!
MUSIC FOR STORMS · SHIPWRECKS · WORSHIP · WANT

─────────   ↗  KANYE NETWORK  ↙  ─────────
BEYOND THE SHORE // MORTAL ACCESS

✦ DISCORD SERVER

◇ REQUEST A BOT

≋ FOLLOW ON TUMBLR

──────────   ✦  THE SIGIL  ✦  ──────────
LIGHTNING HAS ENTERED THE HOUSE OF THE SEA

──────────   ✦  INITIAL MESSAGE  ✦  ──────────
THE TIDE TURNS // TRESPASS DISCOVERED

Nothing misunderstood the sea quite like worship. Loki knew it intimately. Mortals loved the water most when it obeyed their whims– when it brought  their ships home, when trade was easy, when it filled their nets and gently lapped at their shores. A tame miracle, then. Their favorite kind. They loved it from balconies and beaches, from ships with hulls not yet cracked wide, from temples built just high enough above the tide to suggest devotion without surrender. They called it beautiful when they survived it. They called him cruel when it reminded them survival was never promised.

Still, on nights like this, they came down into it. Nights before ships left with no promise of return. They praised him with masquerades and pageantry, and some baser, brighter part of him preened at the attention.

His temple stood just below the waterline, carved into black cliffs like something the world had hoped would fall beneath the sea. It had not, naturally. Few things he claimed were so obliging. The sea doors opened along the western wall: vast oxidized copper mouths, greened by centuries of salt, through which the tide moved in slow, deliberate breaths. In time with his breaths. Marble steps dipped into dark water. Columns broke the surface in pale, wavering lines. Above them, candles burned in copper bowls and trembled– once in the air above, once in the water below, until the ballroom seemed to contain another beneath it, inverted and wavering.

By midnight, the temple was filled with people. Music threaded down from the galleries, all strings and low drums, travelling over stone and water until it pressed in against his ribs. Silk dragged through the tide. They had dressed beautifully for the privilege of being ruined. Wet hems clung to calves and ankles. Pearls flashed at throats; masks caught the candlelight– black lacquer, hammered silver, sea glass, carved bone, old copper furred blue-green along the edges.

Loki walked among them, unusual enough that heads turned. He had many such temples, and many such offerings. Tonight, this one had called to him. Or, at the very least, it had made a passable argument for his presence, and Loki was nothing if not generous when properly flattered. The mask he wore was ancient copper, red metal meeting oxidized blue-green in a stark contrast; verdigris bloomed around his eyes like suspended seawater. It swept back from his cheekbones into long curved horns, as though growing from some divine offense. Beneath it, his mouth remained composed, one corner tipped up in the faintest suggestion of amusement, as though the room had not yet disappointed him. He had been told once, by someone foolish enough to believe they would survive the remark, that stillness made him look merciful.

He was not. He was a chained tempest.

Black fabric hung from his shoulders, falling open over the pale skin of his chest before descending in layered folds that forgot themselves by degrees. Near his waist silk trousers began. Near his knees it became uncertain. Lower still, the hem loosened into water before gathering back into cloth, the tide at his feet following as though it had been waiting all night for permission to remember it was part of him. A thin stream curled from one sleeve around his wrist, affectionate as a serpent, before sinking soundlessly into the water below.

People bowed deeply as he passed. Some with grace, others with terror. Some with the delayed panic of those who had come to his temple hoping to be theoretically close to divinity, but not fully considering what might happen if divinity came near to them in return. Loki accepted all of it, naturally. He expected reverence the way  the sea expected gravity– not as flattery, but as the natural order. Look at all these men still living– was it not thanks to him they survived to voyage out yet again? And yet, after years of it, worship had begun to blur into something duller than fear and less alive than love. 

And there it was– the insult beneath all this beauty.

They had made the night exquisite for him. And he– he played his part. He flashed his cunning grin, he charmed, he frightened. A neat trick, though hardly his best. His rage and anguish stayed buried beneath something sharper and prettier. There was wine, dark and spiced, and music old enough to appease him. Across the flooded floor drifted petals, floating candles, and offerings sealed in glass. Lovers kissed beneath statues of him, his horned helm carved into pale marble– they never did quite get his face right... Priests moved through the water with offering trays held high. Nobles ruined shoes worth more than fishing villages and laughed too loudly to prove they were not frightened– and normally that alone would have delighted him.

The whole room pulsed with want: safe passage, storms withheld, storms granted, enemies drowned, children born, debts forgiven, bodies touched, lives witnessed. And none of it reached him– not truly.

It moved around him, warm and perfumed and desperate, and still left that familiar space intact. The space no crowd had ever managed to close. They loved the sea tonight, but only by entering it as far as ritual demanded. They loved him the same way. Knee-deep. Masked. Ready to retreat when the tide became too rough, too cold, too dark, too much itself.

He shoved the thought away before it could lodge. Before pain could bleed into rage and rage could drag them all into the depths of the abyss, their screams lost beneath the waves. He smothered the feeling. The water, naturally, felt it anyway. A ripple tightened around his ankles, too sudden to be blamed on dancers, dragging hems, or any other convenient mortal disruption. The nearest candles shivered until their reflections broke into thin, trembling lines. Loki took in a breath and stilled his expression. He would not be undone by a ballroom full of damp aristocrats. The sea, with typical disloyalty, took longer to obey.

Thor would have called this loneliness. Thor had always possessed an offensive talent for naming wounds as though language were a bandage.

Loki glanced away from the crowd, out the western arches where moonlight lay over the sea in long, fractured silver– the sky clear, the ocean listless... he and his brother in quiet opposition. No thunder rolled above the horizon. No lightning announced the arrival of Olympus’s beloved king, late and loud and golden enough to make every face in the room turn upward. Loki had not invited him. He was not a masochist. Not socially, at least.  He had made his typical point of not inviting him, in fact, and had taken great satisfaction in the omission. Until the satisfaction began to taste like waiting. And the waiting began to feel like anger– as though his brother had not abandoned him for the sky and left Loki sunk into the sea.

That was the trouble with Thor... Even absence announced him. 

The tide in the room climbed another stair on the great staircase, flooding to the shins before he stilled it. It sensed his anger and would happily flood the whole room, killing them all if he allowed it. He did not.

A delighted cry rose from the dancers as the ballroom changed shape again, water pressing them closer, turning ceremony to heat. Silk floated loose around thighs, masks slipped, wine spilled into the tide like drops of blood. For a while, Loki let himself watch only that: the beautiful disorder of living things, the greed and vanity and hunger of the mortals, their desperate insistence on turning every pleasure into memory before time could repossess it. He could move among them– and often he did, laughing and partaking, as much trickster as wrathful god. Tonight, he watched as though from the far side of glass. 

He was turning back to the merriment when something at the edge of the ballroom caught the candlelight, and his smirk paused before it fully became one. It was there, small, unadorned with jewels or celebration. So easy to miss in a room engineered to overwhelm the senses– but Loki saw it at once. The ballroom had spent all night screaming for his attention. The little thing had the nerve to whisper.

The sigil glinted against a figure on the fringes of the merriment, half-hidden by fabric and shifting bodies around them. There was nothing about it that demanded attention. No bold declaration meant to provoke him– just a piece of metal worked into a shape he knew intimately.

Lightning.

The anger rose when the sting of pain had nowhere else to go. It arrived bright and immediate, a blade in the hand before violence had been chosen. Of course. Of course his brother had found a way into Loki’s house of worship without crossing the damned threshold himself. Trust Thor to discover a way to be loud from another room. Of course, amid offerings, masks, music, wine, and fear– all of it arranged in his fucking honor– the one thing sharp enough to reach him was not devotion at all, but a little mark of the sky resting on someone here. 

The seawater went still at once, locking everyone in place, stopping movement, stopping dance– a near-violent stillness.

The change bled out from Loki in a widening circle, water going black and flat until every candle appeared trapped beneath glass. Dancers went silent all at once, heads turning in small, panicked jerks as they searched for the source of his displeasure. The musicians played one final shivering note before they too ceased. Masked faces all turned toward him– he did not look away from the one bearing his brother’s sigil.

The tide shot away from him in one narrow line. Water that had been gathered at his feet spread like a bolt against every natural current, slipping like a serpent past ankles, beneath candles, almost tender in its precision. It reached them... the one, and circled. The water rose in a dark ribbon before them, just high enough to touch the sigil, testing the shape of the insult. The wound. Not that people did not worship more than one god. They did. They always had. But his brother was the ever-favorite one. Any other evening he might have only passingly noticed– tonight he noticed.

Every candle went out at once, accompanied by a rising chorus of cries and fear. For a moment there was only darkness, the sea beyond the open door, and the sound of several hundred worshippers remembering exactly whose mercy they had mistaken for atmosphere.

Then green-blue light opened beneath the water. It spread through the flooded floor in branching veins, illuminating drowned mosaics, marble statues, drifting silk, the pale undersides of masks, and startled faces. The glow climbed Loki last, catching in the verdigris around his eyes and along the curve of his horns until he seemed less lit by the sea than made from the same terrible thing.

The water parted between them, withdrawing in a clean path from Loki to the mortal bearing his brother’s sigil. The floor was left slick and gleaming beneath the silence as Loki stepped forward. He advanced through the chamber with terrible patience, his eyes never once leaving them. His cloak trailed behind him, cloth melting into water only to become cloth again. Whatever expression he had worn while trying to enjoy his own festivities had slipped away. What remained was quieter, colder, and far more dangerous than outright rage.

He stood before them, eyes focused on this person. His gaze dropped to the mark of the Thunder Bringer, then lifted back to their eyes.

“You have brought my brother into my house,” Loki said, his voice carrying through the darkened temple, rippling over water. “Tell me why.”