Antiope is no artist, she cannot put pen or paint to paper or canvas and create something beautiful and awe-inspiring from it. She was made to create only death, and thus death is all that she knows. And, perhaps it is the essence inside her made of blood-red (or maybe the one made of death’s black cloak) that makes her think even in death there can be found beauty.
Surely, in death, there can be found reprieve.
She takes the blade with the ivory hilt handed to her, and wonders for a moment at its magical change of being. Once, it had provided warmth and light and guidance, and now? Now, it provides defense and calls for blood and satiation. The blue of her eyes seems darker without the firelight, seems more like the deep unforgiving sea.
Antiope is no artist, but when she puts the tip of that dagger to the wood she almost believes that she could be. What she carves is no masterpiece, but it is clear in her eyes that each symbol means more than words alone can express. Near the bottom of the wood she carves one ring, standing alone against the emptiness of the world around it.
When her eyes flash like lightning in the gloom, she begins to carve a second ring, wrapped around the first, but it is incomplete, broken, hanging haphazardly off the first. And all she can hear is the buzzing in the back of her mind that whispers, Rezar over and over and over again. And the fire burning hatred inside her bubbles a little closer to the surface as she scrapes into the wood a smaller circle, intertwined with the first two, but this one is also incomplete.
She bites down on the name that wants to free itself from inside her but she cannot. Antiope does not allow this, this one thing, to escape. She presses it back and down, down, down, until the blade clasped in her fist is carving new shapes, high above the first set. Gems, four of them. One surrounded by fire, another by leaves, another by smoke and the last by ink. They form a short line across the wood, and their carvings are made deep in the truths behind them, deep and jagged and wicked.
Then, the blade falls from Antiope’s grasp as she takes something else up into arms. She swings her axe high above her head and she asks it to swing true and to swing righteously and it begins to glow and glow and glow, brighter and brighter until it is almost blinding. And it falls, slicing through the air like it is flesh, until one blade on the double-headed weapon is buried among the wood, burning through those gemstone carvings.
When Antiope pulls the axe free, no longer blazing with heat or light, she says nothing. She merely looks away from the smoldering, blackened wound, and toward her new companion. Antiope looks at Isra and at the dagger with the obsidian hilt that she holds and the lioness in her roars. The question is in her eyes, that she does not have to ask, what will you protect? what will you take to do it?
"Speaking."
Surely, in death, there can be found reprieve.
She takes the blade with the ivory hilt handed to her, and wonders for a moment at its magical change of being. Once, it had provided warmth and light and guidance, and now? Now, it provides defense and calls for blood and satiation. The blue of her eyes seems darker without the firelight, seems more like the deep unforgiving sea.
Antiope is no artist, but when she puts the tip of that dagger to the wood she almost believes that she could be. What she carves is no masterpiece, but it is clear in her eyes that each symbol means more than words alone can express. Near the bottom of the wood she carves one ring, standing alone against the emptiness of the world around it.
When her eyes flash like lightning in the gloom, she begins to carve a second ring, wrapped around the first, but it is incomplete, broken, hanging haphazardly off the first. And all she can hear is the buzzing in the back of her mind that whispers, Rezar over and over and over again. And the fire burning hatred inside her bubbles a little closer to the surface as she scrapes into the wood a smaller circle, intertwined with the first two, but this one is also incomplete.
She bites down on the name that wants to free itself from inside her but she cannot. Antiope does not allow this, this one thing, to escape. She presses it back and down, down, down, until the blade clasped in her fist is carving new shapes, high above the first set. Gems, four of them. One surrounded by fire, another by leaves, another by smoke and the last by ink. They form a short line across the wood, and their carvings are made deep in the truths behind them, deep and jagged and wicked.
Then, the blade falls from Antiope’s grasp as she takes something else up into arms. She swings her axe high above her head and she asks it to swing true and to swing righteously and it begins to glow and glow and glow, brighter and brighter until it is almost blinding. And it falls, slicing through the air like it is flesh, until one blade on the double-headed weapon is buried among the wood, burning through those gemstone carvings.
When Antiope pulls the axe free, no longer blazing with heat or light, she says nothing. She merely looks away from the smoldering, blackened wound, and toward her new companion. Antiope looks at Isra and at the dagger with the obsidian hilt that she holds and the lioness in her roars. The question is in her eyes, that she does not have to ask, what will you protect? what will you take to do it?
@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
