✩

Diana of the Black Clay was not blessed by the Olympians — she was claimed by older gods buried beneath the world. Sculpted to embody truth without mercy, she is the last relic of Themyscira, a living reliquary carrying the souls of her fallen sisters in her crown and chains.
            
            She walks among gods and monsters as a judgment made flesh. Her lasso does not reveal truth — it extracts it. Her blade ends immortals permanently. Where she steps, lies rot, statues weep, and even gods avert their gaze.
            
            Diana protects humanity not because it is innocent, but because it is fragile. Mercy costs her blood. Justice costs her eternity. She endures both, choosing kindness in a world that worships cruelty.
            
            She is not the end of wars.
            
            She is what remains when all lies are gone.

/ anything pls 

@GothamSpecter- 
            
            Intro 

♘【 @ofdemonicflesh 】♘
            
            Calla didn’t move, but the tilt of her chin sharpened like a blade catching light.
            “Appetite,” she repeated, voice quiet enough to force him to listen. “That’s one way to dress it up.”
            
            The wind off the rooftops carried the sour tang of rain and old smoke, but she held his gaze as if cataloguing every flicker of shadow in his eyes.
            “You think grief makes me yours to taste?” A dry half-smile flickered. “Loss built the walls, sure—but it doesn’t get to hold the key.”
            
            She stepped forward just enough for her boots to scrape the concrete.
            “Curiosity’s fine. Just don’t confuse it with an invitation. Gotham’s full of hungers, and not all of them end well for the thing that’s starving.”

@GothamSpecter- 
            
            "perfume critiques . . . ? no . . . perfume is fleeting. cheap.
            what clings to you is marrow-deep.
            vengeance has eaten you whole and left its scent for me to taste.
            
            gotham wears smoke and rust, yes. but you—
            you wear hunger.
            a city cannot birth that.
            only grief . . . only rage . . . only the slow rot of loss.
            
            warning? no.
            consider it curiosity.
            consider it appetite."

♘【 @ofdemonicflesh 】♘
            
            Calla tilted her head, the faint green glow of a rooftop exit sign catching the sharp lines of her face.
            “Potent, huh?” Her voice stayed low, measured, like she was cataloging the sound of each syllable.
            
            “Funny thing about Gotham—it leaves a smell on everyone. Smoke. Rust. Grief.” She took a slow step closer, boots barely whispering against the wet concrete. “If you’re smelling vengeance, maybe you’re just picking up what the city wears every night.”
            
            Dark eyes narrowed slightly. “So, you always open with perfume critiques, or am I supposed to take that as a warning?”

*      mhm curious