[P] to be the sun

[Antiope]

Antiope

and fate may fall down upon you

There should be a hundred reasons that Antiope is tired. Because she doesn’t sleep, because she wanders the streets all hours, day and night—prowling just like the lion in her bones. Because everything inside her is more and other and too much for this mortal skin. Least of all of those reasons is her position, which gives her purpose and reason after the fallout of her previous life.

Of all the essences inside her, in all of the colors of the gods they had come from: red, green, purple, black, it is the green one that gives her life and vitality. But even when she gets tired, the Regent just draws on her magic. Antiope has never gotten over the sleeplessness of war.

“Do not write me off so easily, Warden,” she says with a flash of sharp sapphire eyes, rising to the top of the slope and coming to a stop at Morrighan’s side. She looks out over the prairie, as fat, fluffy flakes begin to fall from the sky above. The coating is not thick and the ground hard and frozen, leaving less to hazard during a race. “Since this is your rematch, you can decide where we race to.”

Sideralis has little in the way of landmarks, except a few scattered and bare trees like shadows against the snow, but the views go for miles. Flakes begin to accumulate upon her back, white crystals clinging to her hair that is tied high and tight.

She has been caught in worse storms, and is scarcely phased by the snow as it floats lazily down to the ground. Very little has ever phased her, and still doesn't. “But I'd try not to get your hopes up, if I were you,” Antiope remarks, like a dare, or a promise, glancing sidelong at the woman next to her.

"Speaking."

@Morrighan

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