Ganymede's name most often is not whispered, but sung, or more like screeched though he's told it is singing. Bands and ballads claim his name for their own, proclaim him some youthful martyr for their unfulfilled lives in songs that sound like their metal devices crashing to the earth, though he's certain they know not a thing about him or his story. If they did they'd not sing about it. Either way, to keep their screaming from his ears, he more often than not he wears large headphones over his ears when passing through the streets or on the underground.
In this world of theirs he is a waiter. Doing what job he was first given when he plucked from the earth by Zeus, and pours for them wines and liqueurs that are like stagnant water in comparison to the ambrosia of the gods. Yet the restaurant in which he works is considered the top of the mark, the creme de la creme by these mortals so he serves in silence and obedience as if these rooms were the dining halls of the Olympians. Much to his dismay he's almost as popular a servant among mortals as he was among gods, though at least here he is given a due for it.
Always he wears a mask of serene resignation, back straight, eyes forward never meeting anyone else's, the only break is the slight recoil or grimace when he is remarked upon as an object of beauty. When he is not working he wears bulky coats, large sunglasses to hide his eyes and face, and baggy pants to distract from his appearance.
As a whole he takes no stock in the progress or downfall of people. He watches them with a critical eye as weak things, knowing their weakness as one that was once his own. He regards himself as something severed from the body of mankind and what twinges he feels for it are as twinges for a phantom limb.
no subject
Name: Hale Fallworth
Ganymede's name most often is not whispered, but sung, or more like screeched though he's told it is singing. Bands and ballads claim his name for their own, proclaim him some youthful martyr for their unfulfilled lives in songs that sound like their metal devices crashing to the earth, though he's certain they know not a thing about him or his story. If they did they'd not sing about it. Either way, to keep their screaming from his ears, he more often than not he wears large headphones over his ears when passing through the streets or on the underground.
In this world of theirs he is a waiter. Doing what job he was first given when he plucked from the earth by Zeus, and pours for them wines and liqueurs that are like stagnant water in comparison to the ambrosia of the gods. Yet the restaurant in which he works is considered the top of the mark, the creme de la creme by these mortals so he serves in silence and obedience as if these rooms were the dining halls of the Olympians. Much to his dismay he's almost as popular a servant among mortals as he was among gods, though at least here he is given a due for it.
Always he wears a mask of serene resignation, back straight, eyes forward never meeting anyone else's, the only break is the slight recoil or grimace when he is remarked upon as an object of beauty. When he is not working he wears bulky coats, large sunglasses to hide his eyes and face, and baggy pants to distract from his appearance.
As a whole he takes no stock in the progress or downfall of people. He watches them with a critical eye as weak things, knowing their weakness as one that was once his own. He regards himself as something severed from the body of mankind and what twinges he feels for it are as twinges for a phantom limb.