'It is best in the end to let women see to their own vengeance.'
Calliope watches the goddess intently between the sparks of her smoldering rage. She looks to the new queen and her tenderness. They both carry their words, their bated sorrow with a temper she could never master. One is tender and gentle. The other is almost as cautious as a child and Calliope cannot help but to compare her to the old-gods and find her meek and uncertain in comparison.
Where is the rage of the gods? The fury of the immortal when something that belongs to them is taken?
Her smile then is a vicious thing, a scythe of white and blue lightning bolts as she looks back towards the lake. There is a promise in the curve of her lips, drawn out in the cracks of dried blood that still lingers in the creases of her face. Nothing good lives in that promise. It's only justice and vengeance that live in the line of her face when she turns and walks a few step away from the sea and the goddess.
Idle talk does not suit her well and when she turns to Isra her voice is a low growl of impatience. “I vote now, before the morning.” She's eager to start and pick out which beasts hold traces of her blood between their feathers (which of them was the first to drink with their talons her blood).
And when Raymond speaks her smile turns to him and that promise blazes hotter than before. Surely he will understand out of all of them what the thunderbirds almost dared to take from her, what sins they will have to account for whether friend or foe.
Forgiveness feels so strange when the monsters already took from her mercy.
“None of those societies had us.” Bits of electricity spark around her in spirals of bated rage that lick between her horn and her eyes. There is no thing in the world that could keep her from returning to the lake to count the all the glass feather one by one and pluck out each one with mortal blood upon it.
Woe to the birds if they turn once more a hungry eye upon her for she will meet it with a starving, hollow need.
