[b]Princess Epistia![/b]

You were raised godless. 

You did not know the sacrifices. You did not know the rituals. You did not know how to build relationships with the forces underpinning reality. But every so often you touched on something dark, a ball of fire blazing at the heart of the artificial instinct-cluster that ran right through your mind. Were the Hermetic Iskarot to extract your brain and reveal the neuronic pathways carved by the marvels of bioscience he could tell you that this was not just an organ for processing data: it was a [i]temple[/i]. 

The scent of blood wet the altar of the nose. The torches were ignited in turn, belching forth heat and rage. The ache of muscles and adrenaline came together in silent hymn. Each breath was tinged with incense. You have seen hints of this power in forbidden training bouts - in the arms of practice partners broken, in slips of blunted blades that cut just too much, in rivals whose eyes lower at the thought of challenging you to a contest of strength. But now it is all alight and you stand as graven effigy of Bloody-Handed Ares. You don't know who these foes are. You do not need to.

You raise your scythe and you descend upon the phalanx as the rain begins to pour down. The Thunderbolt soars from the bowstring of the King and you reflexively lash out and catch it on the sharp of your scythe blade. It shatters in a thunderclap echoing the thunder from above, scythe and arrow both. Shards of white-hot metal embed in enemy shields and your own flesh, and still you come, mind running crimson. It's not the celestial mechanics you see, Athena's marvels of lines and force and discipline - it's the music of human hearts. It's not equipment and strength, not numbers or training, but fear. You smell it like sizzling fat burning atop the altar of your weaponized brain and you lunges for it like a starving animal.

First blood is theirs - cuts slash across you as you enters the thicket of spears, opening your veins up like a puzzle box, red mixing diluting amidst the greys. But not every hand here is strong. One pair flinches as you charge towards them and that is the opportunity you need. You lunge across the top of the shield and take the woman's throat in your jaws. It's enough. You're in. Like a blood-mad fox in a henhouse you rage. This is your place. Ares' temple can only exist in the ruins of Athena's.

And then it ends. You're in the dirt again, Thunderbolt through your chest, at the feet of the King. You have left her mark. The phalanx is reeling and you have many companions to lay in the mud alongside her. Was this your life? Two decades of preparation for this abrupt and violent end? As brief and terrible as the fire that consumes a great house and vanishes at the conclusion of the act. You breathe still, but slowly, and through great pain. Zeus' will triumphs even here.

[b]Bella, Redana![/b]

There is a moment when the King is unshielded by his soldiers. He is still an armoured warrior tall upon the battlefield, so he cannot yet be Finished - though now he is vulnerable to being distracted and overcome in the preparation for that moment.

"I am dealing with matters of [b]importance[/b], princess," King Jas'o snarled, hand hovering above the next arrow in his quiver. "And I do not care how many of your fucking pets I have to put down in order for you to get the message. You're going to do one useful thing in your life, and your only choice is how many bodies have to pave the road there."

[b]Alexa![/b]

For all Galnius' pride as a hoplite in service to the Empire, they have no great wish to face Jas'o in this moment. Even the bravest and proudest women recognize when the gods have made their will clear, and the message sent by Athena was clear: King Jas'o was to have victory after victory upon this day. When you advise retreat and avoidance it's Athena who stands steely-eyed in the other direction, offering death with four hands. It's not honourable to shy from such a fight, but neither is it unthinkable. These are just humans, after all.

Instead they storm into the Palace on your command, cutting through the dull-eyed Ceronian zombies who try to block their path. Two of them overturn feast tables and slam them against the doors as barricades. Another roughly hacks the Thunderbolt from your foot with a hand-adze - it's a clean penetration, not requiring the complex surgery a direct torso hit would require. All around these soldiers are braced for a storm.

And it comes - the door flies open, and spears rotate smoothly around to focus on the sudden noise. In comes a startled looking sheep and a grim looking lioness - [b]Vasilia and Dolce [/b]- and the soldiers relax, exhausted, falling and catching their breath in the moment's reprieve.