It looks nothing like the temple on the cliff that the gods who created her sat within. The temple that they had looked down from on to their world of mortals, judging, interfering. Taking. It is not open to the sun and the wind and the sky, not made of huge pillars and marble as white as the canvas parts of her skin. It is not bathed in blood and burning, burning, burning.
But still the strange keep made of ice reminds her of it, somehow. With its shining, gleaming exterior and it's high high walls that grasp for the heavens above—(when gods die where do they go? Are they there, in the sky, planning their own revenge from a world away?)—it looks like a temple. Antiope hates it, it makes all of the burning, fiery, righteous anger inside her steam and boil and threaten to rupture from her skin.
The lioness that lives in Antiope's bones stirs and she can feel the rumbling of her growl crawling across her skin. It is a warning and a message. And the god-slayer, once-lover-once-mother, she intends to heed it. There is nothing in those shining ice walls and glittering colored windows for her. Nothing but reminders and so much hate. Hate and anger and an ocean of leaving behind.
She is walking not toward the castle but away from it when the voice calls out to her. Antiope stops and her jewel blue eyes (ocean blue, sky blue, there is a world of blues in her eyes that they had drawn from) settle on the other woman. The rubies in the snow, glittering and red, are as like blood as the red splashed across Antiope's throat and streaks through her hair. 'Are you going in?'
No.
'If you are…'
The lioness inside her huffs its disappointment, its disapproval. Antiope glances back at the towers of ice and she doesn't know how her hate, how her anger, will like it. The heat of everything inside her might bring it all to the ground. She brings everything to the ground, eventually. She has killed everything she's touched. Will she kill this too? "Yes," Antiope says, biting her tongue, roiling, screaming.
"You can come," and she's changing course, angling back toward the castle that is a temple that is bathed in blood and the remains of everything some gods had once held dear. In the blood of who she had once held dear. She moves toward it like a predator and like a goddess and, over all, like something so unearthly that it is strange and beautiful all at once. Antiope takes the first step through its arching entrance and even as the chill rushes over her skin, she burns and burns.
"Speaking."
But still the strange keep made of ice reminds her of it, somehow. With its shining, gleaming exterior and it's high high walls that grasp for the heavens above—(when gods die where do they go? Are they there, in the sky, planning their own revenge from a world away?)—it looks like a temple. Antiope hates it, it makes all of the burning, fiery, righteous anger inside her steam and boil and threaten to rupture from her skin.
The lioness that lives in Antiope's bones stirs and she can feel the rumbling of her growl crawling across her skin. It is a warning and a message. And the god-slayer, once-lover-once-mother, she intends to heed it. There is nothing in those shining ice walls and glittering colored windows for her. Nothing but reminders and so much hate. Hate and anger and an ocean of leaving behind.
She is walking not toward the castle but away from it when the voice calls out to her. Antiope stops and her jewel blue eyes (ocean blue, sky blue, there is a world of blues in her eyes that they had drawn from) settle on the other woman. The rubies in the snow, glittering and red, are as like blood as the red splashed across Antiope's throat and streaks through her hair. 'Are you going in?'
No.
'If you are…'
The lioness inside her huffs its disappointment, its disapproval. Antiope glances back at the towers of ice and she doesn't know how her hate, how her anger, will like it. The heat of everything inside her might bring it all to the ground. She brings everything to the ground, eventually. She has killed everything she's touched. Will she kill this too? "Yes," Antiope says, biting her tongue, roiling, screaming.
"You can come," and she's changing course, angling back toward the castle that is a temple that is bathed in blood and the remains of everything some gods had once held dear. In the blood of who she had once held dear. She moves toward it like a predator and like a goddess and, over all, like something so unearthly that it is strange and beautiful all at once. Antiope takes the first step through its arching entrance and even as the chill rushes over her skin, she burns and burns.
@Isra
![[Image: 13716916_Rc8f5hGvZkB3cYP.png]](https://file.toyhou.se/images/13716916_Rc8f5hGvZkB3cYP.png)
a war is calling
the tides are turned
the tides are turned
