mycursedface: (and the last was hope)
One day, Medusa (who has entirely forgotten about being told what Valentine's Day is, and that a Certain Someone Forgot) finally decides that Lucifer Needs To Get Out More, and goes to Milliways to kidnap him.

Sam is very much not adverse to this kidnapping, possibly because Medusa is wearing a very pretty bodice.

Beyond Milliways' front door is an open area as would grace any farm; chickens in their house, a couple of goats stoped from their quest to eat the vegatables by a cunning wall, a shed and the peach-coloured wall of Medusa's own garden. There is another low building, too low to be anything but built partly under ground.

It's late afternoon, and actually fairly cool - autumn does that, even in North Africa.

And while she would give him a grand tour of the outside, she does have things cooking in the kitchen, so she leads him down some steps and around the corner. The kitchen is a large cavern, doubling as their main living space, and it is back up against the bathhouse. No sense in wasting heat, after all.

There is a large table in the middle, a working table, and it's a working kitchen for three people who love food and eat a lot.

"Welcome to my home."
mycursedface: (Berber girl)
There was a wedding, and a certain couple entirely forgot about a present. And she had sighed and said she'd make a rug, and he had gone thank you, thank you very much. And so it was that Medusa has been making a rug for the past few months in her time - occasionally drifting in and out, but mostly concentrating on colours and weaves and symbols and magic.

But lo! Said rug is finished, and is now currently being thumped down on Sam's desk.

Gently, of course.

It wouldn't do to unduely startle the Devil, just because it's hours after dawn.


Jun. 25th, 2008 09:53 am
mycursedface: (dream on my dear)
Medusa is not, contrary to evidence, asleep.


She merely has her eyes shut and is thinking.

While curled up on Sam's bed, head cushioned on her arm, giving all the appearances of being asleep.


[thread contains adult content]
mycursedface: (take my hand)
from here

Running up stairs in five inch heels is...interesting, but not as impossible as it first looks - you are just running on tip-toe, after all. Which is killing her feet, but she's tipsy and in love and doesn't care.

Of course, running while laughing and holding hands with your boyfriend is not helpful to maintaining balance, so it's little wonder that at some point, Medusa trips.
mycursedface: (daughter of the sea)
Medusa and sleep are two things that often do not get along. Even if her dreams are free of nightmares now (and isn't she glad of that - even when she didn't wake up screaming, she'd be whimpering and moaning and causing a scene) it's still...
I walked beside the evening sea

And dreamed a dream that could not be;

She mostly sleeps during the day, when it's safe. She sleeps with her arms curled around Sam's pillow when she can't get Sam himself, face buried and snakes lying this way and that. Tangled up in the sheets, wings out, and for such a small person, Medusa takes up a lot of room.

The waves that plunged along the shore

And she dreams. She dreams of the ocean that is her home, of the cliffs and clouds. She dreams of the waves giggling with the voices of her sisters and she dreams of her triplets in the new and empty world in which they'd been born. She dreams of babbling in their own language and trying to pull Stheno's hair as Euryale aims for her feet and-

Said only: "Dreamer, dream no more!"

And when she wakes up, blearily shoving the pillow onto the ground, she can't remember anything. Dreams are like that, sometimes.


May. 30th, 2008 08:44 pm
mycursedface: (goddess)
There are, it should be said, proper ways of doing things; throwing one's head back and yelling works for parents and siblings, but no one else. This is why Medusa, still with her ever-changing henna tattoos, still with her bangles arouund her slender ankles and wrists, dressed in a pretty, violet and sea-stained dress, is standing in a sheltered bay with the waves laping at her feet.

She's also calling, the formal words tumbling from her lips and sounding like music in her haunting voice.

"To Aphrodite. Heavenly, illustrious, laughter-loving queen, sea-born night-loving of awful mien; crafty, from whom Necessity first came, producing, nightly, all-connecting dame. ‘Tis thine the world with harmony to join, for all things spring from thee, O power divine. The triple Fates are ruled by thy decree, and all productions yield alike to thee: whatever the heavens, encircling all, contain, earth fruit-producing, and the stormy main, thy sway confesses, and obeys thy nod, awful attendant of Bakkhos God. Goddess of marriage, charming to the sight, mother of the Loves, whom banquetings delight; source of Persuasion, secret, favouring queen, illustrious born, apparent and unseen; spousal Lukaina, and to men inclined, prolific, most-desired, life-giving, kind. Great sceptre-bearer of the Gods, ‘tis thine mortals in necessary bands to join; and every tribe of savage monsters dire in magic chains to bind through mad desire.

Come, Cyprus-Born, and to my prayer incline, whether exalted in the heavens you shine, or pleased in odorous Syria to preside, or over the Aigyptian plains they care to guide, fashioned of gold; and near its sacred flood, fertile and famed, to fix they blest abode; or if rejoicing in the azure shores, near where the sea with foaming billows roars, the circling choirs of mortals thy delight, or beauteous Nymphai with eyes cerulean bright, pleased by the sandy banks renowned of old, to drive thy rapid two-yoked car of gold; or if in Kypros thy famed mother fair, where Nymphai unmarried praise thee every year, the loveliest Nymphai, who in the chorus join, Adonis pure to sing, and thee divine. Come, all-attractive, to my prayer inclined, for thee I call, with holy, reverent mind."
mycursedface: (spread my wings (and hope not to crash))
from here:

The door slams behind Medusa, but she doesn't stop running.

(need air needair need to breathe)

Instead she, like any other bird would, uses her momentum to jump, to launch herself in the air with her wings pulling back and slamming against the air as hard as she can to leave the tug of the Earth.

(the sky is cloudy when she leaves the bar, the air warm in the late afternoon.

she doesn't notice)
mycursedface: (once the silence has returned)
It had been good when she first came to Milliways. Curled up in Lucifer’s bed, in Lucifer’s arms, with the devil between her and the door, she could sleep. Oh, could she sleep. Damn straight she was good in bed, she had slept for days. Dreams, yes. Nightmares, yes, but…But it was sleep. It was good, too good, almost.

Too good to last, certainly.

As the nightmares began to increase, as they began to get worse and worse, it was too easy to fall into old habits and fall she did.

Lie awake for hours, staring at the door. Lie awake all night and if some of it is just due to her being used to a different sleep-pattern, most of it is just due to the fact that, well. She can’t get to sleep.

She doesn’t want to go to sleep.

Sleep means being unaware, sleep means being vulnerable, sleep means waking up to being murdered all over again. It feels the same, it always feels the same. Sometimes she’s drifting off, sometimes she’s drifting awake, but it’s the same; a sickening gasp, blind panic, and then her heart beating, beating, beating so hard with terror she is convinced that it’s going to break her ribs.

And if she does fall asleep, then it is either oblivion or nightmares. The oblivion is disconcerting; the nightmares are horrifying. Mostly, they are of being insane again, of seeing the world lawless and strange. The sky is purple, green, the trees lunge towards her and her mind is being eaten by rats. Sometimes, it is her murder; sometimes, it is her rape; sometimes it’s a strange mixture of the two, with Athena and Poseidon fighting and trampling her body underfoot (if she can scream, they never hear her, but being able to scream is rare). Mostly, though, it is memories of being crazy, and that is quite enough.

She doesn’t really need to sleep, anyway.

So, today Medusa stretches on the bed, rubs her eyes and then the cat (Shredie isn’t entirely sure what to make of this stranger, but the feathers are fun to play with), and gets to her feet. Jeans, sundress, bangles; kohl around her eyes because even if she hates looking in the mirror, even if she isn’t living in a desert, some things are habit.

And then her wire-framed glasses, and with a called goodbye to the boyfriend in the shower, she’s out the door and heading down the stairs.
mycursedface: (Zili to Asilah)
Mauretania Tingitana was what the province was called. Is called. Definitions are hard when the legions are left, and people still live under Roman names. And Phoenician, and, yes, still Amazigh names, and, really, Zili is just another trading town on the outskirts of an empire that mostly forgets about it.

It's a quiet town, a little run down, maybe, but the farms sprawling out over the countryside are still prosperous. It is also a town that remains mostly unaware of Hera's Garden to the north, and the Gorgons' cave in the south.

All six sisters have worked hard at that, magic and protection and twisting of reality until unless someone knows exactly how to get there, finding either sets of triplets is pretty much impossible.

Especially when the sun will set soon.

(Luckily for Epimetheus, the Gorgon girls are out and flying)

April Fools

Apr. 3rd, 2008 02:59 pm
mycursedface: (April Fools - Golden Girl)
After this:

Another girl would be wondering how to tell her boyfriend, whom she loves and adores with all the passion that only one who has been hit by one of Eros's (bullets) arrows can, how she ended up with a dead blonde girl who she has only met...once before, as a wife.

Medusa is just trying to remember what the symbol on Sam's door looks like.

The Atlantean isn't helping.
mycursedface: (bow my head)
Medusa is sitting in a tree, jeans and sundress and hair in braids and no glasses, today. If anyone comes out here, she'll just...close her eyes or something of the like. She's in that kind of mood, contrary and a little out of sorts and have to be outside can't stay need to-

Only, she couldn't think of anything to do, so climbing the tree and watching the lake in the semi-twilight seemed the better alternative to pacing.

Or paying attention to the dull throb of a hangover.
mycursedface: (wings painted and beautiful)
It's an interesting difference, what (sixteen hundred years) a month makes of a place. Cold and snow to warm sun, and if the air is still chillier than Medusa is used to, she at least won't get ill waiting for clothes and wings to dry off.

Gorgons and water, after all. Not that the legends ever mention that, but Gorgons and water are impossible to keep seperate.

Which is why Medusa is sitting outside on the grass with her back to the sun, jeans and yellow sundress still damp from swimming. Her gold wings are unfurled to catch every last bit of heat and, yes, it is mildly dazzling. This is mostly why she has her eyes closed, after all.


Because Medusa is also thinking. Oh, yes, is she thinking.
mycursedface: (Mistress of the West Gate)
There is a storm, and Medusa isn't in it.

Normally, she would be. Normally, she'd be flying and tumbling and letting lightning hit her. She may or may not be laughing, because sometimes it is best to try and repress the giggles for Ouranos' sake (silly uncle), but Medusa is a storm daemon. Wind and thunder and lightning are what she lives for.

The storm rages for hours, and all she does is sit on Sam's bed. Arms around her legs, chin resting on her knees, wings unfurled just enough so as not to be unnaturally bent, eyes dark and trained on the window.

The storm rages for hours, and all she does is watch.

There is a saying, a quote, maybe call it just plain knowledge that if you cage a bird for too long, they forget how to fly. The open sky scares them. She doesn't know how long she was in that...that places, doesn't want to know, but...

She doesn't want to fly.


She just doesn't, alright.

(if Sam says something during those hours, and there is no reason why he wouldn't, because he is Sam and worries about her, she doesn't reply.

By the time the thunder stops, she's crying.

By the time the skies clear, she is shy and skittish and quick smiles as normal, but that doesn't make her reddened eyes any better)
mycursedface: (shining hope)
The Acropolis is burning.
(burn, burn, burn it down)

It is night now, and the glow is turning the clouds above red. A nice red, really, glowing hot even from here, and fading into a dull red. The screams had stopped hours ago (all gone now) and now there is nothing but silence.

(burn, burn, burn the scene of the crime)

At least, from where Medusa is. She is sitting on a rock on a hill a little distance away, hugging her knees to her chest. She's been watching for hours, but the smile on her face is still as bright and guileless as the flames.

(burn, burn, burn away the memories)
mycursedface: (giggle)
There is an army in Greece. Many armies, many cities so many armies but this arm isn't like that. It's from across the sea from where Troy used to be, well beyond that. It's from the deserts where it snows and sometimes she thinks she can understand the soldiers' babble.

The soldiers talk of 'Sparta' and 'Athens' and even as she hates the last, loathes it and wants to scrub the memory of (his rough hands) what happened there off her body but soldiers mean destruction and she is what she is.

She follows

She picks off the dead, the wounded, those straying too far because meat is meat and she watches with eyes closed.

(she hears the Spartans, hears their king brave and sardonic say molon labe to the Great King's messager, and they did come and get their weapons but she grinned for they died well)

On, and on, and on and this is Athens.

She stops, swaying, claws digging into her arms because she remembers oh Gaia, oh Pontus, she does, she does, she does but then she stops. She gazes out towards the city, barely even breathing before

(the sky is full of smoke, glowing red and she can hear the sceams from here but
it's burning
burning down
I curse you Medusa
the Acropolis is burning
Medusa throws back her head and laughs.
mycursedface: (spread my wings (and hope not to crash))
Medusa is not...okay, maybe she is hiding in Milliways. There are sound reasons for doing so! Including, but not limited to, the fact that Sam's bed is nice.


She is a creature of air and water and earth, and it's actually nice outside at the moment. Flowers and grass and leaves and warm. Not as warm as home, but acceptable. Which is why she's walking outside dressed in nothing but a white sundress (with a halter neck) and jeans.

Also a nosestud in the shape of a tiny spider. India has...left some impression.
mycursedface: (smile in the dark)
Medusa had spent the morning sparring with Stheno (Euryale had run off to town). Hard and fast and nasty and, in the end, Medusa had snapped her sister's wrist. Stheno had kicked her into a wall; the Gorgon girls had always played rough.

Which is why it's a good thing that they can fix each other.

So, when Medusa walks into the library (a large cavern under the earth, floor to nearly ceiling bookcases with laders with wheels that roll across the shelves, and there are tall, narrow windows to catch the breeze and light), her curls are damp from a shower and she's rolling her shoulder back. Magical healing or no, you do feel sore.


Today her nosering (India left a lasting impression, and it's a look that suits her) is a nosestud, a little golden spider with a ruby on its back , and her walk is marked by the chiming of the tiny bells around her right ankle. Not that it's easy to see said bells, given that Medusa's taste in skirts tends towards flowing things long enough to reach the tops of her feet.
mycursedface: (Mistress - not amused)
There had been chains. Chanting. A cage, inlaid and veiled with red, red, scarlet red. There had been a girl, beaten and strong. There had been begging, her own, screams and ramblings and whisper, whisper, whisper and cry for the sky and there had been blood, blood, blood all poured out into bowls.

And there had been a fire.

She remembers the fire.

If there hadn't have been a fire, her clothes wouldn't be burnt, would they? Once a sari, costly and beautiful and fit for a goddess, now rags and charcoal showing ash-covered and still-perfect limbs.

She'd been worshiped before, but not like that and Medusa, gold nose-ring still there (give her a mirror and a century to calm down, and she might concede it actually suits her), gold manacles still on her wrists and ankles, gold bangles still jingling, is pacing in the ruins of a temple. She's chewing her bottom lip and fuming, the snakes hissing angry, angry, angry.

(like the sky above her, dark and rumbling with energy and pressure always rising)

If she wasn't certain that the men responsible had been killed, then Medusa, thinking in the clarity that only resurrection can bring, would be making sure that they were begging for it.
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