poseidon's domain is his least favorite.

not that there aren't any good wars fought at sea. many warriors have fallen to watery graves in ares' rule, left to rest at poseidon's doorstep, but that doesn't mean ares has to enjoy it. he's been behind powerful sailors as they fight, but he's never felt the thrashing of waves that tumble his warriors to their deaths until now. it's extremely disorienting, very unpleasant, he thinks to himself as he's thrown to the shore with a violent abandon. he's a little bruised, but it isn't the worst injury he's ever taken, not by far.

orienting himself isn't hard, and the little automatons that come to assist are an unusually welcome sight. he's assisted with drying off, and upon information that there is a spa nearby, he sets his sights on it. ares settles himself in a warm bath, clothes folded neatly nearby, his head tilting back as he begins to, for once, relax.

he'll worry about the details when he's clean and dry.

it's a good hour or so later when ares returns to himself after his bath, rising from the water to dry himself off and prepare to return to the island. his clothes, however, are gone, and replaced with a suit that isn't familiar to him. an automaton informs him that his clothes have been sent to be cleaned, and will be returned in due time.

ares returns to the beach, dressed in the dark, blood red suit that clings to all the right places. there is no undershirt, just the blazer and the tight pants. his biceps stretch the fabric of the jacket, his biceps bulging over the neckline. the button draws attention to the narrowing of his waist, adding to the broadness of his shoulders. while ares takes orders from no one, he sees an opportunity here to manipulate these automatons, or maybe an unsuspecting passerby, by posing as the guide they had so insisted he be. maybe someone on this island can tell him more about where he is.