Antiope
oh Lord, tell me you love me
am I Lilith or am I Eve?
oh Lord, tell me you love me
am I Lilith or am I Eve?
Antiope stares at Caligo’s face for what feels like so long that she begins to wonder if she is imagining the expression on the figure’s face, in its stone eyes cast in shadows so deep by the bright light of her axe shining from beneath it. And then she bares her teeth like a trapped thing, like a cornered beast, afraid and trying to flee. “Of course you are not going to answer me.”
“At least the ones that made me, the ones that broke me, had the courtesy to face me in the end.”
There is no remorse in her voice when she says it, and that, of all things, scares her far less than it should in that moment. The Denoctian sovereign seems as though she is about to speak again, a strange, considering look in her too-sharp eyes, when the voice rises up behind her. Out of instinct Antiope draws on her magic, pulling on the energy of the summer wind drifting through the temple, and her eyes are already gold, gold, gold by the time she turns to face it.
When she finds Ipomoea there, bathed by the light coming from her axe, the Queen forces herself to relax. Slowly, the ichor bleeds from her eyes until they are blue again. Antiope half turns away, still too tense, still too angry. “I am no star, Ipomoea,” the words are quiet, her voice low, “and if I were I would be a fallen one, besides, I am sure.”
She’s stopped looking at the statue, stopped searching for answers in its empty stare and abysmal star-shine. Now the sovereign is looking down at the items left before the altar and wondering; wondering which of her people had brought these gifts to Caligo’s feet.
Wondering if she answered them, if they found the answers to the questions they’d had.
Perhaps it is only her, that is not worthy of the demi-goddess's attention. Perhaps Isra should have chosen someone else to lead her court when she left. Someone her patron deity would have approved of. If Isra had been hand chosen by Caligo herself, why not the unicorn’s successor?
“If you are here to worship, I will go,” Antiope says, looking over her shoulder at the man half in shadow and half in light, lingering by the entryway. Something in her darkens, something in her eyes deepens like a sea at storm. “I am not sure what I was expecting, coming here.” There is a sigh on her tongue that she cannot let escape, a shivering to her skin that she hopes is almost imperceptible.
"Speaking."
“At least the ones that made me, the ones that broke me, had the courtesy to face me in the end.”
There is no remorse in her voice when she says it, and that, of all things, scares her far less than it should in that moment. The Denoctian sovereign seems as though she is about to speak again, a strange, considering look in her too-sharp eyes, when the voice rises up behind her. Out of instinct Antiope draws on her magic, pulling on the energy of the summer wind drifting through the temple, and her eyes are already gold, gold, gold by the time she turns to face it.
When she finds Ipomoea there, bathed by the light coming from her axe, the Queen forces herself to relax. Slowly, the ichor bleeds from her eyes until they are blue again. Antiope half turns away, still too tense, still too angry. “I am no star, Ipomoea,” the words are quiet, her voice low, “and if I were I would be a fallen one, besides, I am sure.”
She’s stopped looking at the statue, stopped searching for answers in its empty stare and abysmal star-shine. Now the sovereign is looking down at the items left before the altar and wondering; wondering which of her people had brought these gifts to Caligo’s feet.
Wondering if she answered them, if they found the answers to the questions they’d had.
Perhaps it is only her, that is not worthy of the demi-goddess's attention. Perhaps Isra should have chosen someone else to lead her court when she left. Someone her patron deity would have approved of. If Isra had been hand chosen by Caligo herself, why not the unicorn’s successor?
“If you are here to worship, I will go,” Antiope says, looking over her shoulder at the man half in shadow and half in light, lingering by the entryway. Something in her darkens, something in her eyes deepens like a sea at storm. “I am not sure what I was expecting, coming here.” There is a sigh on her tongue that she cannot let escape, a shivering to her skin that she hopes is almost imperceptible.
![[Image: 13716916_Rc8f5hGvZkB3cYP.png]](https://file.toyhou.se/images/13716916_Rc8f5hGvZkB3cYP.png)
a war is calling
the tides are turned
the tides are turned
