nike cracks her whip, guiding to the next battle under zeus’ instruction. every second is a fight. wartorn fields drench her wings in the blood of ares’ slain. wreath of laurel lace with athena’s craftsmanship. victory pulses her heart ; failure is congestion she swallows until she spits it on defeat’s body. petty clashes between a co-worker is no different ; she won’t give up until she wins.
‘ why would i? ’ she taunts, a battle song to echo without her in view. she’s a couple rows back among the metal chairs by then, a few less than her introduction. the words give her time to reach a row behind. hands grip the edge of one, leaning her weight on the balls of her feet. she has an angled view of him, at this higher ground. his entiretymay be out of her sight, but his slouch tells her the enemy’s status. as his hand peels weariness (already seen!) from his face, a sly grin creeps onto hers, taking it to her advantage. ‘ you look awful. ’
@multascripturae (re)