A custom loathsome to the eye, hateful to the nose, harmful to the brain, dangerous to the lungs, and in the black, stinking fume thereof nearest resembling the horrible Stygian smoke of the pit that is bottomless.
Nico strode forward. The enemy army fell back before him like he radiated death, which of course he did. Through the face guard of his skull-shaped helmet, he smiled. "Got your message. Is it too late to join the party?" "Son of Hades. " Kronos spit on the ground. "Do you love death so much you wish to experience it?" "Your death," Nico said, "would be great for me. " "I'm immortal, you fool! I have escaped Tartarus. You have no business here, and no chance to live. " Nico drew his sword-three feet of wicked sharp Stygian iron, black as a nightmare. "I don't agree.
Hence, loathèd Melancholy, Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born, In Stygian cave forlorn, 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy.