b e x l e y
zeus acts as zeus ordains. do you think the gods ignore a man who steps on holy things?
T
he rain comes down in sheets and sheets, and despite herself Bexley does not hide from it. The night is warm and summer-thick; she turns her head up to the sky, breathes deep-deep-deep and exhales. Like a breeze coming from off the ocean. The world is pretty and silent but for the beat of Bexley’s heart inside her chest and the soft chrrr of the rain as it floods the cobblestone. It should be peaceful—would be—if she could just stop thinking about that man’s face as he went down into the waves, and what the omens of his mouth might spell.Thankfully, she is distracted by the appearance of the shadow, girl-shaped. Her eyes turn down the street. It’s hard to make out any details, but hanging in the air above her is a slice of golden light hanging in the shape of the axe, shedding stars on the wet ground, shrouding her in a deep-yellow gleam. (I could make that, Bexley thinks, though not unimpressed.)
The light dims to a soft glow. Now the alleys around them are cast in shadows soft as a storybook, and the woman that comes into focus looks as though she herself might come from a fairytale. Eyes bright as bluebells, striped like a tiger, and the axe that she holds must be something godly for the way it glows and winks like a wild thing. Bright-red paint stripes her hooves and dots the skin under her eyes. In the soft, warm rain, the colors of her face melt into one another like watercolors.
She is overwhelmingly pretty, and powerful even moreso; Bexley can smell it on her, a perfume as obvious as a brand. The thing that tells you be careful. She wears it too. (And people don’t often listen.)
“I thought so,” Bexley answers wryly, “But…” Her gaze flits upward, to the sweeping curtains of rain, and a half-smile flashes her teeth white against the soft glow of the axe. “I may have been mistaken. Though you don’t seem to mind it either—“ Her smile deepens, and subtly enough, one eyebrow rises. It could easily be lost in the white fog of her hair or the mist of the rain, but Bexley guesses (knows) it is not completely secret.
@Antiope | "speaks" | notes: <3
