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You are stone; unable to move.
The goddess’ order was clear, decisive – but terror holds your feet to the ground, locks your joints in place. You only barely suppress the urge to simply flee into the night; no matter how fast one runs, one cannot escape from the Ερινυες – from the Curses. Hellenes of all ages titillate one another with the lurid tales of their victims; wise men never dare to speak their true names aloud, using only euphemisms to discuss them - some call them the "venerable goddesses". It is said that speaking their true names may prompt their gaze to wander in your direction, if they are unoccupied… You rack your memories and can think no crime that might warrant the attention of the greatest of these goddesses, of Τισιφόνη herself, spawn of the blood of Ουρανος... But you have committed no kinslaying, no violence against family, no unwise uttering of their names; you are certain of this.
Only after this self-inventory, do you find the courage to heed the words of the divine, and turn to face your fate.
She stands fifteen strides away, and at the sight of Her, your knees tremble. She is tall – much taller than you – even at this distance, you see that Her face is perfect, Her lips full, Her cheekbones high. Her skin is alabaster white, flawless, and She is clothed elegantly in a gown of material so dark, it may well have cut from the night sky itself – and perhaps it was. At first, you think Her hair is braided – but the rippling firelight from the blazing oak illuminates Her, and you see that Her hair is composed of slowly-writhing serpents – asps, pythons, adders, and vipers. In Her right hand, She holds a funeral torch of yew – it burns brightly with near-white flames, but the material of Her gown swallows the light absolutely. The torch causes Her divine flesh to stand out brilliantly against the gloom of the clearing; the skin of a goddess glimmering in the dark. A snake curls about Her left arm, like living jewelry; it tastes the air with a flickering tongue.
Your mouth is bone-dry with lust and terror both.
She takes a single graceful step towards you, eyes narrowing, beautiful features set in a perfect frown – Her eyes are a lustrous gold, faintly luminous. They dominate your vision – they are everything.
<span class="mu-g">“Remove your helm, prince of Argos. Are you always so slow to respond to the commands of the divines?”</span>
Her tone is sharp, cutting. You remove your helm at once, hands quickened by fear, and you drop the Heraclidean helm by your feet. The goddess takes another step – and the pressure of Her presence begins to build intolerably, bands of iron crushing your chest and shoulders. Your eyes water, but you cannot look away. Her eyes hold your heart in a vise; you cannot breathe.
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