victory is in my veins
*
To walk in a garden, where walls tower around her like a cage, makes her skin feel as taunt as a live wire sparking with a current that needs only somewhere to go. She remembers all the places she has been and all the bodies her soul has shifted to fit. There is no world, no universe, no magic nor beast that could tame and tether that wicked and wild soul of hers. Even her bones bend to the will of that ancient old soul and she needs nothing but her fierceness to tear through galaxies as if they are made of nothing but smoke.
The look on her face becomes a dangerous thing, to hear them talk of change, walls and rulers who know little of righteousness. It gathers in the shadow of her horn like a storm and her eyes flash like lightning as she looks back to them.
It is not hard to see death in that gaze of hers. She is a queen of judgment and a war that has no end while her heart still beats in her chest.
“Give yourself a new name then.” Her voice is no less a war-bell for the way it lowers as she turns to Florentine, no less a weapon than her horn. “Let them call you change if you crave it so.” She doesn't tell them why she has come, why there are countless worlds wasting away in her wake.
The answer is in the way she moves like a beast let loose in a city of sinners with blood on their hands. It's in the way Calliope is built for a hunt, her nose lifted to the sun as if she can smell the rotten metal of crooked crowns.
She is nothing like them. How could she be? There is no mold she could bend to fit. She would break them all, shatter them to suffocating dust. Novus cannot contain her and ghosts of dying gods should rattle in the cages of their altars for the once god-hunter has come.
Her hooves slow as Asterion speaks and she looks back at him, swinging her tail across the stones like a whip. That dark gaze of hers brightens as she smiles. Her smile is the curved blade of a scythe, poised on the shadows of her face. “And do these wall-builders call themselves gods? Do they rule as if they are? As if they are righteous and kind?” How bright her eyes glow beneath the daylight, stars of destruction that only promise some end.
There could be a meteor in her bones.
“Tell me everything.” Calliope's voice is a spark and her muscles turn to steel. She could be a battering ram as she pauses, waiting, one foot in the air like a hound on a blood-trail.
They should have known better than to tell her of a jail of a world, of a place parched for change.
Florentine and Asterion should have known just what cage their words would have unlocked and what beast would leap out from those bars.
@Asterion @
