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Post by brindletail on Feb 22, 2017 23:42:27 GMT -6
Torsten "Where you recognise evil, speak out against it, and give no truces to your enemies "- Viking proverb.
Torsten had been praying more in the past days than he had most of his years on Hireath. He prayed for Perseus to stay his course; he prayed for the safety and victory of his Flock; he prayed for the battle to be swift and the bloodshed to be justified. It did wonders for his sobriety, and this particular brisk morning he paced the veined pathways through the Barrier Mountains with the hyper awareness of a young adolescent.
He should be going, he belonged in the fray. He unfolded his flayed wing with a hiss, proving he would be more hindrance than help to anyone right now. How he injured himself he wouldn't say, but someone of value had to stay behind with those who couldn't fight. He tried to see the duty in that. He trusted those who flew under Perseus's wing would deliver justice. Or at least, he trusted Antiope.
Fondly thought of as his lieutenant, the glittering pain in his ass would at least inflict as much damage as possible before going down. His hoofsteps took a pause as he thought back to his very first encounter with Antiope. He knew what she was capable of then as well as he knew it now, even if he would never admit it to her.
He waited for his lieutenant, all the while convincing himself that it should be he that stay behind and protect those in case of an ambush. They had agreed to meet before Perseus's official roll call. He needed to see her.
WC: 257
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Post by Deleted on Feb 25, 2017 0:37:11 GMT -6
antiope i feigned umbrage at my bruising fists
you're going to wish you hadn't run Trepidation had become an unfamiliar feeling to Antiope. In the years since her self-imposed exile, she'd assumed that her fear, like so many other things --her girlhood, her fine silks, her illusions-- had been left behind in Inaria.
Now, faced with the city that had gutted her once, Antiope felt anxiety sprout from the seed it had planted in her. It had been lifetimes since she'd laid eyes on the skyline of Inaria. Antiope unwillingly remembered the girl she'd been underneath those arches: softened and fragrant from rich bathwater, apologetic and hidden from view by a curtain of auburn curls. She had spent her childhood with her eyes downcast, pliant in the hands of the ocean's cruel goddess.
She was soft, then. Isolation had made her harder. The Flight had made her sharp.
Antiope hardly resembled the girl she was trying to forget. She was a golden statue now, chiseled harsh and defiant. The shimmer of her jewel feathers had been made imperfect by the swords and arrows her skin had deflected. Her eyes were wilder now, and were cast down for no one. But the fear was there. Like a stone, sitting in her gut. She felt it weigh her down as she took wing.
Her face was as unreadable and fierce as ever when she landed before Torsten. There always seemed to be something boiling in her, barely contained by skin. It would suit her best if her teacher couldn't identify it today. "Are you prepared?" she asked, a bit more sharply than she'd anticipated. She attempted to rein in her tone as she continued, keeping her voice even: "It's not long now."
She was unsure why she said it. It was never like her to waste words on pleasantries, or the obvious. A steadying breath tried to bring her back to her center, but the stone was heavy. 313 words, post 1 |
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