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
The blood does not stop her.
She paints the two bands around her left forearm, one thinner, one thicker, and beneath that a row of dots circling around. Antiope has been painted in blood more than once in her life, and she will undoubtedly be painted in it again in the future. She is immortal, after all.
Perhaps she cannot outrun the fight in her. Perhaps she cannot outrun the killer.
Antiope hears him approach before she sees him, before she smells the seawater that is leaving trails and puddles at his feet. Brine and blood, salt and metal—a perfume of death and danger. She purposefully, gently, oh so slowly, places the brush back upon the throne next to that bowl made of skin, and then she turns. Just as he speaks, she turns.
He is changed. In the way Boudika had changed, once, many moons ago. She almost envies him his sharp teeth, for with teeth such as that and the weapon Antiope wears at her side, she could have anything she wanted. She could have fought. She could have won.
Antiope could have lost herself and been okay with the way the darkness would have consumed her the way the ichor devours her eyes every time she uses magic.
If he is not the same man that the ex-sovereign met a lifetime ago than neither is she.
Something in her has broken, fractured. Parts of her are seeping out like water through cracks. Like blood through wounds. Something has emptied out inside of Antiope, something caged has been unleashed.
“Is it you, or is it I?” she says, voice low, voice drip, drip, dripping like his saltwater, as she descends the raised dais that throne is sat upon. Antiope remembers how much she had hated the way he looks like Rezar, if it weren’t for the blanket of white upon his back. If it weren’t for his horns, or his eyes just a little too blue.
Her axe is spinning, and spinning, and spinning, and her eyes are too sharp and too dark. She moves closer to him, as the blood dries upon her skin to a deep mahogany color, and then she smiles like something wild and black inside. “Two monsters meet on a throne…”
"Speaking."
She paints the two bands around her left forearm, one thinner, one thicker, and beneath that a row of dots circling around. Antiope has been painted in blood more than once in her life, and she will undoubtedly be painted in it again in the future. She is immortal, after all.
Perhaps she cannot outrun the fight in her. Perhaps she cannot outrun the killer.
Antiope hears him approach before she sees him, before she smells the seawater that is leaving trails and puddles at his feet. Brine and blood, salt and metal—a perfume of death and danger. She purposefully, gently, oh so slowly, places the brush back upon the throne next to that bowl made of skin, and then she turns. Just as he speaks, she turns.
He is changed. In the way Boudika had changed, once, many moons ago. She almost envies him his sharp teeth, for with teeth such as that and the weapon Antiope wears at her side, she could have anything she wanted. She could have fought. She could have won.
Antiope could have lost herself and been okay with the way the darkness would have consumed her the way the ichor devours her eyes every time she uses magic.
If he is not the same man that the ex-sovereign met a lifetime ago than neither is she.
Something in her has broken, fractured. Parts of her are seeping out like water through cracks. Like blood through wounds. Something has emptied out inside of Antiope, something caged has been unleashed.
“Is it you, or is it I?” she says, voice low, voice drip, drip, dripping like his saltwater, as she descends the raised dais that throne is sat upon. Antiope remembers how much she had hated the way he looks like Rezar, if it weren’t for the blanket of white upon his back. If it weren’t for his horns, or his eyes just a little too blue.
Her axe is spinning, and spinning, and spinning, and her eyes are too sharp and too dark. She moves closer to him, as the blood dries upon her skin to a deep mahogany color, and then she smiles like something wild and black inside. “Two monsters meet on a throne…”
![[Image: 13716916_Rc8f5hGvZkB3cYP.png]](https://file.toyhou.se/images/13716916_Rc8f5hGvZkB3cYP.png)
a war is calling
the tides are turned
the tides are turned
