Truly, it could be said that the gods had favored craftsmen in the years since she'd been buried. Or perhaps they'd bartered, maybe even plundered these secrets from the forges of the dwarves. For all she knew about the construction of this tub and its operation, she had no insights into the secrets of why it existed in the first place. Not that it matters in the slightest. No, the much more important and more obvious fact of the now is that her kingdom had fallen after all.

It must have, if for all their mastery the bathsmiths had not thought to make it large enough for someone like her. 

Indeed, every part of her is too large for the room she finds herself inside of. Long, much too long arms spill over the sides of the bath, revealing coiling muscles bound tight in roll after roll of white cloth and fur-lined leather wrist guards. Every finger on her hands is adorned with golden rings of entirely different sizes and styles, treasures she could not possibly have made for herself. More than one finger is even favored with a second mismatched ring. They curl in unnatural directions as she grips the sides of the tub and pulls herself through the ice with a wet slosh.

Now that she is lying on her stomach there is no room for her legs, which curl girlishly behind her and yet with all the seeming of a serpent's raised head in warning. Chain glitters in the silver light pouring in from the windows with hardly a clink as her feet kicked about, stuffed deep into her massive tanned boots as it is. A tight braid flops across the ground, soaked with pink tinged water in places and dry in others where it coils on the ground, far too long and majestic to have fit inside the bath with her. Her hair is the color of spun straw, dotted through with jeweled chains and heavy iron bands.

Even her eyes are large, flashing with equal parts danger and delight at the fridge, the empty bottles of mead, and at the warrior-priest gawking at her with all the seeming of a woman haunted by ghosts. Her jaw, too, seems bigger than it needs to be given the design of the world around her. When she grins, she shows rows of horridly sharp and jagged teeth. They line her mouth all the way to her lithe, dancing tongue. All of her is too much for the world she has woken up to.

Just as she was when last she lived. In that way, nothing had changed. She had failed. She spits out a chunk of ice and watches it slide across the ground to the priest's feet. Her fingers grip tighter around the edges of the bath until the material starts to crack beneath her.

Creature of the water. A mermaid, maybe, if much too large for that. Or. Or... whatever it is, not human. The sharp ends of blue-ink tattoos are just visible on her collar bone and the base of her neck where her armor shifts to show skin. The massive axe on her back clinks against her 'bed'. She has all the seeming of a lion, or perhaps more accurately a polar bear. No, a shark. It's not that she is trapped. There is simply no need to stand on ceremony here. A predator, a [i]king[/i], can afford to take her time.

Besides, there is power coursing through her body, and a dream lodged like a knife inside her heart. The world may still be building itself too small, but it's plain to see that it hasn't grown any weaker since she died. That's enough to put her in a good mood. There is fun to be had, still. And conquest. Perhaps she would fight a frost giant after all.

She smiles, and leans farther over the edge of her ice bath/bed. Muscles bunch and roll along her shoulders as she surges, the envy of any shield-maiden despite their impossible length. A heavy necklace slides out of the water and drips frigid water on the ground as it dangles from her craning neck.

"You called to me!" she booms, "Little priest. And so I have come. Congratulations, you war is already over. Now tell me, [i]Master[/i]: do you fancy yourself my king? Or are you here to be my new wife?"