It’s an invitation from Zelos - personifies dedication, emulation, eager rivalry, envy, jealousy, and zeal. So did they get invited to a masquerade ball?
It looks like they’re fighting for this potion looking thing or someone stole it at the masquerade ball. idk im just writing down random thoughts in my head
This looks like Themis - personifies divine order, natural law and custom. And she’s able to see future. Did she see them running away or stealing that potion looking thing? Again, my thoughts are running wild and they don’t make sense.
It looks like a man and woman running away and someone is after them. They might have stolen something or escaping death. lol idk I get so stupid when VIXX drops teasers.
I can’t screen cap to add on to this, but there’s obviously Poseidon through out the entire thing and you’ve already got Zelos and Themis, but there’s another statue and I’m pretty sure it’s Artemis because there’s a quiver on her back and a bow in her hand. As someone else pointed out the Greek word Ker by the lower right corner mean “female death-spirit” or “goddess of death/doom”
If we’re pondering the three masks floating, there are the Three Fates who are the sisters of the Keres. That one’s a stretch but….
I’m still working on reading the invitation but the last line says:
We dangle on the laced rope of a hammock, my rhubarb bra flicks over the birch branch, prints the whole lawn flush pink. We are inside a star. We are dust. Your look is granular, whistles gather me. I am dancing flush and light. There are s sounds in all the words without them.
We roast apples on a fire made of beach glass. We sleep without a roof. The hammock rope is damp still with morning cloud. The hummingbird croons a tale of open lids, honeybees, wake, honey,
wake. We come and core ourselves like a story. We are apple-cherry and culled. This is the beginning and the end is seedling, long like blue
in distance. It is after now. We understand time like tea. Your palms yawn, sing we are moth-eaten and dirtied from all the hours in the flower beds—
I tell you I am afraid of wholeness and also not being whole, and the earth turns to opal salt.
We watch and imagine the things you will gift me laid on a cedar plank: talc poems, spiced corn chips, two sawlog wheels with honeysuckle spokes, a slate blue voice, all the craters you know on the moons of Mars in diametrical order,
a map of shelter you call a constellation, it dances slow, you whistle. The onions in Maine bloom pink flowers.
