Dygra
"Never be humble in asking for more."
The voice that fills the Obsidian Cathedral is low and sumptuous, a sword sheathed in velvet, and it whispers around the walls and thrums through the stone with enough body to set the bowl of blood to rippling. Thalassa will feel Dygra's presence in its entirety, even if she cannot see her. The goddess is present, and she listens.
"Sweet, dark, child - what shape will your chaos take, I wonder?" A hot breeze cascades across the Ancient's neck and shoulders; phantom hands grip her own. A spear? A sword? A bow? What does her body thirst to hold in its grip, to fight with and to take?
The voice that fills the Obsidian Cathedral is low and sumptuous, a sword sheathed in velvet, and it whispers around the walls and thrums through the stone with enough body to set the bowl of blood to rippling. Thalassa will feel Dygra's presence in its entirety, even if she cannot see her. The goddess is present, and she listens.
"Sweet, dark, child - what shape will your chaos take, I wonder?" A hot breeze cascades across the Ancient's neck and shoulders; phantom hands grip her own. A spear? A sword? A bow? What does her body thirst to hold in its grip, to fight with and to take?
