@giantichor.
Bronze armour clinks together like bells above the rough crunch of snow beneath her sandals. A wind whistles through the sharp cypress fans, and they shiver to and fro. Vapour escapes Athena Promachos’ lips, but her skin stays lush and pink with the gold blood of the gods, and she knows no discomfort.
A crack of a twig in the stillness of the Dolopians has Athena reaching into the folds of her thick cloak for her xiphos. She turns to the direction of the sound and blinks. It’s a boy; surprise flickers in her grey eyes. She lowers her blade slowly, but she does not sheathe it.
“You are no mortal,” she says evenly, scrutinising him with a gaze sharper than she intends, “and I have never seen your kind in all my years. Enlighten me, boy.”










