And if the devil loves details, then godliness floats in the vague.
Elektra You never hold me.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Clytemnestra Don't be the sort of person who needs to be held.
I ... Vincere / It is sometime in the tenth century.
There are loud voices permeating in the air. Screaming and cries of battle echo outside the tent, where your mother currently resides.
There are no more than five people in the vicinity with her. The tent is dimly lit, atmosphere suffocating with tension. Your father's hand grasps your mother's hand tightly as she screams, pain and exhaustion contorted all over her face. The midwives tend to your mother, encouraging and pressing her to push further.
Your father stands tall but he is weary. His eyes are darting between your wailing mother and the entry of the tent.
Outside the fabric walls, his men are out fighting against the neighboring villages. Swords and axes clash harmonically against each other, and violently against the bone and marrow of one's skin.
