Ares looks down at the ruby wash of blood and wine on the floor and cringes, then tilts his head to take in the lovely mistress of this dreadful, mangled event. Aphrodite laughs and almost skips as she twirls lightly around the floor, plucking a wine glass from amidst the disarray and sipping from it with relish, though Ares could not swear that its contents are wine and not blood.

"Is it not a beautiful sight, lover?" Aphrodite asks with bright and biting tones, sliding a hand over Ares' bicep and leaning in close; she smells of flowers and blood and sex, and he closes an arm around her delicate waist. "Fit for the wedding of one who can rival a goddess?"