Bio

I remember the first time I saw him. I think his description of that night was the truest thing he’d ever told me. Dionysios is an inveterate liar, but this? This is his only truth, I think.

The music thrummed through him. He liked to think that the music was his heartbeat, that everyone around him moved in accord with it. He’d always thought that, even when the pounding sound came from skins stretched tight over frames of sacred woods, instead of the results of programming talent and a drum machine.

And maybe he was right. Didn’t his rites say that he was the heartbeat in every man and woman, the beat of life in every body?

Okay, no, they didn’t really say that, but they probably should have. If he were establishing them today, he would have them say that. But his worship had never really attracted poets – most of them served other, gentler faces.

But that was okay. Let them have their sweet-faced poets and lovers. He liked sweat to cover the face, not perfume. He liked bodies heaving and gasping for breath, not clad in smooth cloth reclining on couches.

He stripped off his shirt, tucking it into the back of his black jeans. He raised his arms high, and the coiling, leafy vines tattooed there seemed to climb, reaching for the lights that strobed in time with the beat. He threw his head back, running his hands over the short, stubble where once grew wild locks threaded with grape-leaves and silver beads.

He exulted in the pound-pound-pound of the music, allowed it to carry him away, unaware of the eyes that were drawn to his perfect olive skin, to the ripple of muscle beneath that flesh. He smelt of rich earth and sour wine and once-sandaled feet now stomped combat boots in that same, ages-old rhythm of the dance.

The DJ was his priest tonight, the queer boys around him his acolytes.

And once more, in the dark of the night, he was worshipped by hearts that soared, by flesh that sweated, by breath that came raggedly. And though they didn’t know the words, they lived them.

Evoe Ekstatophoros.

Evoe Gethosynos.

Evoe Choreutês.

I was captivated watching him. Most people on the dance floor are either self-conscious, because they’re afraid everyone is watching them, or they’re arrogant, because they know everyone is watching them. He stood out. The world disappeared when he danced. He left our world behind, and we were the poorer for it.

I broke away from my group of friends when I saw him. I made noises like I was going to go and bag the hot new boy in the club. I’m a party promoter, you see, and it’s pretty easy to take home the prettiest ones. I mean, even if they aren’t attracted to me specifically, I’m the literal center of the party, you know? If I’m not their Mister Right, chances are good they’ll meet him at one of my events. And I’m cool with that – I’m not really the sort to get latched down to anyone, so it’s almost a relief.

This one? He was different, though. I never actually intended to approach him. I just wanted to get away from their drunken bullshit so I could pay attention to him. Every little tactic I normally used – drink tickets, VIP passes, invitations to after parties, asking them if they’ve ever thought about working as a dancer – all of them were so…fake when I thought about applying them to him.

And that’s when he saw me, and for the first time he seemed like he was aware of what was going on around him. We danced like – I don’t know. Gods, I suppose (fittingly enough). It was amazing, and when he left the world again, he took me with him.

We woke up in my apartment the next day, and he said those three phrases to me. Evoe Ekstatophoros. Evoe Gethosynos. Evoe Choreutês. The word Evoe – it’s kinda like a prayer. An expression of desire to be noticed. “Come to me,” it means. It’s not an invocation in any normal religious sense – it’s an invitation – a desperate desire, really – to be carried away wholly.

The other bits…those are names. Names that they used for him, originally. Ekstatophoros, the ecstatic one. Gethosynos, the rejoicing one. Choreutês, the dancer.

He told me the most ridiculous bullshit. That I was the child of a god – someone, somewhere. I told him I’d grown up in foster care and the state system. He said it didn’t matter – if they had plans for me, they should have gotten around to them sooner. He claimed me. The way the old gods used to, he said.

It’s weird – everyone else I meet talks about the gods as parents. Not me, though. I guess he’s technically my father on some level now, but man do I have an Elektra Complex something hardcore. Which is just as well, I suppose – I don’t think he’d want it any other way.

Lucien is the (adopted) Scion of Dionysios whose original parentage is unknown, and who doesn’t really care. It’s not about what’s happened – it’s about what’s going to happen.

Character Ties

• Hofi Hamasdöttir: Photographer who took unflattering pictures of Lucien in the past
• Azure Kessinger: ??
• Evan Itzcóatl: Future tie?
• Evie Carruthers: Rival