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Stunning Steve Austin makes his way to the ring to defend the WCW World Television championship against Scott Steiner. WCW Saturday Night March 14, 1992
MADUSA
Legends were never meant to be gentle.
WeArtDoing × @ysok125 present 【Medusa Girl-Green Viper】 🐍 An emerald incarnation of Medusa, where serpents rise not as ornament, but as identity.
Pre-orders open March 18！
Doodled this at school today:3
Medusa Crowley, my beloved . And also Athena.
Gotta write that fic one day.
My Head of Pythons
Summary: A forgotten court of women.
Content warning: Forced marriages, implied sexual violence.
Word count: 1k
Notes: A small writing experiment.
The sun descends into its grave; Night Court is again at the height of its power. Where the rest of the world goes to sleep, those within the metropolis of Nightmares rouse. Like shadows, they tethered themselves to cobblestone walls and slink through downtown streets.
Hewn City came to life at night. A haunted house of phantoms—bleak, hungry, vengeful.
Connected to the arteries and veins of this place was the castle heart. It was carved into the mountain itself. Gargoyles coiled at the gates, stone beasts nestled in fangs and claws as they devoured each other. Between them grew the only natural flora: flowing vines of jasmine and moonflowers and poisoned ivy.
If one were lucky enough, or ambitious enough, to make it inside, they’d be welcomed with spirals of polished ebony and tapestries of hideous figures—begging, revelling, fornicating.
To receive an invitation to enter was a blessing, all would be made to believe. It would show status, that you had climbed above the desperate.
But she knew better.
She was fourteen when she first entered the Hewn City castle walls. A new gallery was opened for viewing the same month her father made an advantageous trade. His business in wines fermented with mirthroot made your family wealthy enough to brush shoulders with those of noble blood.
Her mother silently stood by her father as he whispered in ears and sweetened his pockets. She was left to enjoy the art alone.
There was a painting larger than she hung as a centrepiece. A woman with a head of pythons, her mouth hung open in a curdling scream, silenced by the man who tears his sword through her neck. Her body was depicted naked, back arched, splayed over a rock below her raised head. Erotic—males would mumble under their heavy breaths. Their female counterparts would press their lips together and bow their heads.
She didn’t stop staring into the eyes of the angered, crying woman, even as her father laid a heavy hand on her shoulder. “You once asked me how you can help me,” her father would murmur into her ear, cold and unforgiving as the warrior who raised the female’s head. “You can help me now, daughter.”
The woman with the head of pythons became her mirror, while her father sharpened the sword later given to the male who promised to become her new keeper.
In the opulent drawing room, the flickering faelights cast a warm glow over the unfolding precession. The man she was to marry was called Abernathy—an Earl with coffers made of gold. Her dowry was wine and pure flesh.
The body of present witnesses were all family members and close council, as well as the officiant himself. She was adorned in a gown of ivory silk and lace, a garland of baby’s breath weaved into a crown atop her head. She held a taper candle, dripping white wax into her fingers, the burn a comfort against her new husband’s cold leer.
She had once dreamt of flying so she could touch the clouds. As a child, she imagined them to be more plush than a feather-filled pillow, malleable yet dense to create small, safe creatures.
She imagined she was flying on her wedding night. High above those clouds, far from her marital chambers. Far from her physical body.
The High Lady of The Night Court. The title that was gifted to the mate of The High Lord. An equal in power and body—the first ever made.
Talk within the streets of Hewn City ignited—hesitancy, anger, hope. Those in the castle walls spoke fervently of this change. Males scoffed and begrudgingly bowed their heads in submission to the new instatement. It was the females who excitedly gossiped and grinned behind palms over afternoon teas and gatherings.
“I believe this will change everything,” one of her closer confidants affirms, smiling into the rim of her china cup. She toasts in agreement despite the uncertainty within her second friend.
“Do not be excited over the slim possibilities,” her second friend warns.
She shook her head, hopeful for what the figure of the High Lady could represent, what she does represent—equality, freedom, and progress. The weight of the diamond on her left hand was a chain she vowed to remove one day. She believed The High Lord’s mate would be the one to set her free. To set all of them free.
She wore violet blue to the Winter Solstice. It was a statement in of itself, a calling, a dream. Her head was bowed, and her lips were tight as she followed close beside her husband. She did not speak until dismissed, so she resigned herself to listening. Trades, relationships, machinations. The hall was another business deal disguised as a celebration.
Dark magic rumbled the core of the mountain, warning the approach of the High Lord and the High Lady. Faeries turned and gathered as the Throne Room doors yawned open. Gasps and sighs echoed at their court leaders—their Lady, garbed and crowned. And pregnant.
She followed the crowd and dropped into a deep curtsy as they made for their throne. The hairs on her neck stood on end as she felt them fly closer. Despite knowing better, her gaze raised to peer through her lashes. Her heart sang with hope as she looked upon her High Lady.
Look at me, her eyes pleaded, look at us. Do you see the invisible chains that keep us shackled? The rings we did not accept around our fingers?
The High Lady only looked where she was going, climbing the dias to her throne. Untouchable and unreachable.
She rose, yet her stomach sank. The fae around her drank and toasted with her father’s wine. Her husband dismissed her early in the night, and she joined her circle of friends.
The painting of the woman with a head of pythons still hung in the gallery—marvelled by males, empathised by females. She did not have a head of pythons, but she silently screamed into the abyss.
She had hoped, and she was wrong. The High Lady was not their saving figure of change. Girls will still be given manacles while the Lady is here.
This is a cycle that will never end.
