I’ve Never Seen Before
To surmise, sometimes the very worst that could happen could lead to some of the best.
Jilted. Abandoned. Deserted. Dumped.
These words, and others, washed through the mind of Gnossos Nyxiad as she walked away from the altar her husband never met her at. Her veil of woven spiderwebs, never lifted. Her crown of peace lillies and magically treated frost, never touched. Her dress,reminiscent of an old ballgown, sewn with pearls and diamonds, never saw a dance.
She knew not where she was running, only that her legs began to pick up speed. Her gorgeously done eye makeup running down her face, the streaks of tears now a branding of loss as she ran through Covena’s Northern Sector, and exited into the pavilion, where the drinks were being poured.
It was at this moment where Gnossos Nyxiad had her magic awakened. Looking somberly at the silverware she selected for the wedding, she saw that her typically amber eyes have gone wicked violet, spats of magenta and drones of indigo turning her iris’s into swirling nebulas of amethyst. She screamed, and fell over, quickly being helped up by a Staff, its emotionless mask of a smile offering no judgement. Or solace. The wedding party was outside the door, but something about Gnossos made them stop there.
She began to laugh, taking one of the bottles of Frost, an abyssal-black liquor made from fermented licorice, and just began to pour it on the dress, that costed roughly thirty million dollars and was woven by the Dianamead’s, who dominated the fashion industry.
But instead of being stained, the dress seemed to feed into the feelings of Gnossos. Confusion about being abandoned. Fear of not being loved. Hatred at the man she thought she loved. Sadness over everything like a bow on top of the worst present. The dress was stained an ugly black, and the diamonds turned into Onyx, the pearls Obsidian. Gnossos shattered a wine glass and began to shred the dress. Tearing off the restrictive sleeves, jumping up and down so the fragile cage and corset shattered. Anyone who tried to stop this grand display of letting go, was promptly threatened with a wild violet glare and a sharp shattered wine glass.
If Arachne, the seamstress of the dress, saw this, which she would in many years, she’d be quite proud. For now she wasn’t bride-to-be Gnossos Nyxiad, she was The Banshee of Nightmares, she was Noxia, she was the scream of fury and sadness and fear that made banshees cower. She was the Deity of Rage for forty years, taking down crime syndicates and gambling rinks and becoming a vigilante.
Her eyes never turned back to amber. And the words in her head were new. Exciting.
Power. Revolution. Carnage. Freedom.
