( devour / divine. )

Her laugh is like sparkling water reflected in the sunset glow, disbelief marking heavenly features as she naturally takes her sister’s hand. “Really? Not a single person would dare dance with you? Disappointing, the lot of them.”

Hardly dressed for the occasion ( mud clings to her shoes, the scent of horses and wildlife cling to those cinnabar locks; she looks closer to a wildling than what one might expect of a queen ), a click of disapproval to the motley Servants around them who dare spurn a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to dance with Ares’s pride and joy. Suppose she cannot blame the lot, for few are capable of keeping up with an Amazon’s pace, and those who can ought to know better than to cross blades with a lioness. She gives Penthesilea a cordial bow, grinning sunbeams and strawberry sweets as a determined look sparkles in her eyes.

when I get my shit together and finally get back to being active on here I’m def adding these muses to the list:

M.edea

Or.pheus

Dio.nysus

@strangefakes​

The breath of a beast punctures the air. “Beast” is perhaps the only accurate term, for what was once a man is no longer. What was once a God, too, is no longer. Something beyond base intellect is buzzing in his skull. It’s not often that it happens, so deep in insanity. He can’t help himself. Red eyes glare, watchful. He knows SHE is here. Not the Sister, no… The Queen.

“… ▃▃▃…!”

He can’t let her escape. Something buzzes in the base of his skull. An old memory that claws even through the insanity. An old memory that antagonises the insanity. She’s part of a conflict, something that caused him anger and bloodshed. And he cannot help but focus on that and desire nothing more than to break her. And so, with one almighty roar that echoes through the air… He explodes. He moves fast. Faster than one his size should.

He’ll chase her. He knows she’s here. He knows and he’ll find her!

“So this is what you have become, Heracles? Very well.”

The steed snorts, apprehension rumbling through its muscles, its form obfuscated by the dense treeline. Its rider remains still as stone, unmoving as she sees a cloud of dust and debris running in her direction; she needn’t try to know who it is as she nocks an arrow in her bow ( she knows, she always knows the sound of that angered roar, the anguish and carnage that comes with it ). In the face of anger she is stoic, heart at ease as something stirs deep within the pit of her stomach.

A pitiful shadow of his former self: the great hero of Greece whose tale is drenched in blood—her blood—and rotten spoils, revenge-driven by grief and madness simply for being. Yet for all of his misery she cannot forgive him. She will never forgive him. Her blood begins to boil as the blessings of her father’s gift channels through her entire being, and in that moment she becomes something like a god, like an inferno: wild and terrifying, a beauty that should only ever be admired from a distance; she is red, the color of a phoenix, and when the moment rises she fires the arrow knowing that it will hold true.

How does one describe a woman like Otrera? The first queen of the Amazons, consort of Ares, their mother who stood as a silhouette for most of their lives as she bore the solemn crown that weighed upon her head. She gave herself to Artemis, built a shrine in her name, gave herself to everything without hesitation or regret, even as Bellerophon ( chimera-slayer, tamer of pegasi—matricide ) slew her in battle. That was a dark day, then, as that bloodied crown rested against Hippolyta’s temples, solemn once more. Perhaps it is the duty of an Amazon queen to be solemn, to become a stoic silhouette—no, a blinding light—that would lead her people into the fray. No longer a woman, no longer a person, but a valiant image of courage and strength.

No meagre amount of praise can hope to describe their mother, for she is all of them: she is strong, kind, fierce, graceful, charismatic—she is everything that embodied a proud Amazon. But as a mother… well, that’s another matter entirely. It is not to say that Otrera was a horrible mother—far from it, and there were those rare moments where her smile rivaled that of Helios—but she was distant, certes, always carrying a burden she refused to share with others.

“Dear Pen, I remember our mother as a kind, strong woman. One who loved her people and her daughters so much that she forsook her emotions so that we could be happy in her stead.

She cared, Pen, she cared so much that she couldn’t become a mother because the world would have killed her if she tried.”

( She is Nike, valor and dignity, hands capable of destroying and creating in equal measure; she is the foundation of all that they are, and in that foundation Otrera carried hope that her children would grow prosperous. )

She remembers in her youth the solemn face that marred their mother’s heavenly visage, how distant she was despite being blood, how her eyes became hollow when staring out into that sea which encircled Themyscira’s bountiful forests and shores. Otrera was no loving mother, not the kind who would cradle her children in sheepcloth and sing them lullabies; she was a warrior first and foremost, blessed by the god of war and maiden of the hunt—such a woman could not afford Hestia’s bounties, and so Hippolyta decided to become Storge in her stead. A mourner’s smile presses against sunny lips, one of longing and sorrow.

“She was a difficult woman to understand, but Mother loved us. This I can say with absolute confidence, and I’m sure she would have wanted us to be happy no matter what.”

With regards to Moses’s speech impediment:

This is something that is addressed multiple times in the Old Testament, and while each version tackles this particular verse in different variations, every version will attest to the fact that it’s because of his speech impediment that he defers to Aaron to speak to him after begging God that he cannot be a proper speaker or a leader for his people due to lacking public speech skills. In terms of how I’ll tackle this quality of his, he will be very slow with speaking as he actively tries to not stutter or repeat himself, but there will be times where he is very emotional and things will fly forth from him without cessation ( and it will happen since there is evidence where his anger is a violent aspect of his that he cannot control once it starts going ).

She speaks of fire from the belly of a rotted beast gutted from the inside-out by teeth and ceramic, a long-lasting prejudice that carves a hollow where her heart ought to be as a heavy force compresses the air around them, a phenomenon not spurred by magecraft of any kind, but simply from the girl's natural wellspring of od leaking into the atmosphere. It is a subtle thing, the whispers of a voice unheard by those who haven't lived with the earth side-by-side; no, she doesn't expect anyone to understand those barren tongues who continue to grow silent with every passing moment. “I have no patience for your kind.”

He—her Servant—told her to deal with the rabble who dare interfere, and that is exactly what she intends to do.