Antiope
i am the righteous, the touched and the holy
i am the voodoo that you want to believe
i am the righteous, the touched and the holy
i am the voodoo that you want to believe
She walks that long bridge to the island, dragging one point of her double-sided axe the whole way; scrape, scrape, scraping its edge along that arching, grotesque ribcage. Over gems and barnacles that stick to and protrude from its surface. The bridge shudders, and rocks, and Antiope digs her hooves in and keeps going. The open mouth of the island is a black cave, an omen, and she descends into it with only the light of her axe to guide her.
If there is a line left in the bone behind her from her burning axe, she doesn't feel sorry for it.
There is a city in the middle of the cave, and in the middle of that a castle, reaching high, high, high toward the ceiling. Antiope presses forward, looking through the door of every shop, none of which has a keeper. She imagines that whatever is inside them requires none. Nobody will be leaving with the items lining the walls and shelves. No one will be leaving.
The woman approaches the shop with the weeping walls and the sound grinds down to her bones. It plucks at her like the spines of a thorny bush. She sets her axe upon the walls until they are screaming alongside the other ones, and drinks in the sound of their anguish. The lioness in her bones lopes languidly through her, as if expecting something wonderful. As if expecting something.
She does not stop for the strange objects, not tempted by their empty promises of beauty and glory. She goes further, goes deeper. Antiope is a wraith in the island’s open belly. She is like its loose soul, wandering, searching for the place it once belonged. So she circles, and circles. And it reminds her of circles she once walked through the sand and the jungle on this same island, once, so long ago.
She circles, and circles, like a predator does its prey, until she stands at the open doors to the castle. Everything inside the castle is calling to her, begging her to come, see, discover something about yourself. Antiope sets her axe to swinging, and swinging, and swinging. Its light is a kaleidoscope display on the walls, the floor, the ceiling. It chases shadows from the corners over and over and over again before inviting them back in.
The hallways lead her like dogs hunting a fox, and she follows faithfully, unwavering. Something in her is building, like anticipation. A pressure, a waiting. Her axe is still swinging when she enters the throne room and her eyes like cut sapphires see the thing sitting there. Only it is not a who but a what, sitting there. Antiope moves closer, her weapon now motionless at her side.
Upon the throne rests a bowl made of skin (whose, she cannot possibly know), filled with what appears to be red dye. Beside it lies a paintbrush made of bone and hair.
The last time Antiope had applied her dyes had been before going to the temple which was bathed in the blood red light of a setting sun. Later, it had been bathed red by other things. Since arriving in Novus, slowly the red markings upon her body had faded. Faded to a bruising, and then to nothing at all, as she had tried to let go of the killer she had been made. Perhaps that had been her mistake.
The striped woman stares for a long time at the bowl, and the brush, and the red liquid inside. The lioness inside her waits, and waits, and waits. It is as though the entire castle, the entire city, is waiting. She can feel its anticipation bearing down upon her like a hot breath.
Perhaps she is not a fallen star at all, but a dying one, preparing to explode.
Antiope lifts the brush made of bone and hair and dips it into the dye. Applying it is like welcoming an old friend. Five dots beneath each eye, a stripe on each hoof. A sweet, sharp, metallic smell wafts up from the brush to her nose, and that is when Antiope realizes it is not dye in the bowl but blood.
"Speaking."
If there is a line left in the bone behind her from her burning axe, she doesn't feel sorry for it.
There is a city in the middle of the cave, and in the middle of that a castle, reaching high, high, high toward the ceiling. Antiope presses forward, looking through the door of every shop, none of which has a keeper. She imagines that whatever is inside them requires none. Nobody will be leaving with the items lining the walls and shelves. No one will be leaving.
The woman approaches the shop with the weeping walls and the sound grinds down to her bones. It plucks at her like the spines of a thorny bush. She sets her axe upon the walls until they are screaming alongside the other ones, and drinks in the sound of their anguish. The lioness in her bones lopes languidly through her, as if expecting something wonderful. As if expecting something.
She does not stop for the strange objects, not tempted by their empty promises of beauty and glory. She goes further, goes deeper. Antiope is a wraith in the island’s open belly. She is like its loose soul, wandering, searching for the place it once belonged. So she circles, and circles. And it reminds her of circles she once walked through the sand and the jungle on this same island, once, so long ago.
She circles, and circles, like a predator does its prey, until she stands at the open doors to the castle. Everything inside the castle is calling to her, begging her to come, see, discover something about yourself. Antiope sets her axe to swinging, and swinging, and swinging. Its light is a kaleidoscope display on the walls, the floor, the ceiling. It chases shadows from the corners over and over and over again before inviting them back in.
The hallways lead her like dogs hunting a fox, and she follows faithfully, unwavering. Something in her is building, like anticipation. A pressure, a waiting. Her axe is still swinging when she enters the throne room and her eyes like cut sapphires see the thing sitting there. Only it is not a who but a what, sitting there. Antiope moves closer, her weapon now motionless at her side.
Upon the throne rests a bowl made of skin (whose, she cannot possibly know), filled with what appears to be red dye. Beside it lies a paintbrush made of bone and hair.
The last time Antiope had applied her dyes had been before going to the temple which was bathed in the blood red light of a setting sun. Later, it had been bathed red by other things. Since arriving in Novus, slowly the red markings upon her body had faded. Faded to a bruising, and then to nothing at all, as she had tried to let go of the killer she had been made. Perhaps that had been her mistake.
The striped woman stares for a long time at the bowl, and the brush, and the red liquid inside. The lioness inside her waits, and waits, and waits. It is as though the entire castle, the entire city, is waiting. She can feel its anticipation bearing down upon her like a hot breath.
Perhaps she is not a fallen star at all, but a dying one, preparing to explode.
Antiope lifts the brush made of bone and hair and dips it into the dye. Applying it is like welcoming an old friend. Five dots beneath each eye, a stripe on each hoof. A sweet, sharp, metallic smell wafts up from the brush to her nose, and that is when Antiope realizes it is not dye in the bowl but blood.
![[Image: 13716916_Rc8f5hGvZkB3cYP.png]](https://file.toyhou.se/images/13716916_Rc8f5hGvZkB3cYP.png)
a war is calling
the tides are turned
the tides are turned
