Information

Gorgon has a minion!

She-beast the Mairra

Gorgon
Legacy Name: Gorgon

The

Custom Nightmare Serpenth
Owner:

Tribe

Age: 14 years, 8 months, 4 weeks

Born: July 20th, 2009

Adopted: 2 years, 3 months, 1 week ago

Adopted: January 6th, 2022

Pet Spotlight Winner
March 3rd, 2023

Statistics

Level: 2,021
Strength: 3,446
Defense: 4,040
Speed: 3,015
Health: 4,041
HP: 4,036/4,041
Intelligence: 2,964
Books Read: 1113
Food Eaten: 3665
Job: Statue Polisher

CREDITS

profile template (c)

helix (get it)
overlay by

Ravel
template edited by

Tribe with tips from

spacemage
story by

Tribe
background courtesy of Unsplash user Emre
adopted from

orion on 1/6/2022
also ty polisci class for making me resent Aristotle and ancient Greece's misogyny
planned build: 10k hp, 8.5k str, 10k def, 6.5k spd

I am not the monster

content warning: story aligning with Medusa's mythological origins

Him. He made me realize that gods, by any other name, are monsters.

Jilted by the city, he revenged his loss of patronage with a fickle and brutish act; he would ravage a daughter of the city, a woman barely more than a girl, all to strike out against Athena.

Crueller yet, the target of his lust was a favored priestess in her shrine, known for her pious demeanor and, even more so, for her beauty. He would move to shake the resolute, a blatant threat in his actions: in making him an enemy, not even our most devout were safe.

I... I didn't want this. I didn't want his affections, his touch, his so-called love. What a grotesque and ugly love it was, one that wouldn't be told no.

The way he'd taken advantage of me, the familiarity with which he'd done it, his sickeningly breezy nonchalance... he regrets nothing, not even as Athena passed judgment over my spent and shuddering frame, the temple stone still warm with his wanton act.

The goddess, blazing with fury, meted out a punishment both swift and cruel; she was beautiful in her majesty, yet even more terrifying still. Though she was my patroness, this personal offense to her dignity would receive no justice.

Still, none of it mattered to him. He'd gotten what he desired: my body used for his wants—a self-gratifying, ruinous balm for his injured pride.

I became the monster; I suffered the consequence of his actions.

He framed me as the temptress in his crime, an instigator rather than a victim. I was a desecration begged for subliminally, a seductress with the simplest motions.

... That can't be right, could it?

I was a temple maiden, devout and dutiful, one who curries favor with the gods. Pure and chaste, a gentle smile soft-spoken with well-met blessings.

I didn't ask for this... any of this.

If this is their favor—their love—I don't want it. Not anymore, not ever again.

As if they'd even want me now.

I did not claim my first victim with any aggressive will—would you trust my word on it?

I was so newly on the run, fleeing a past that—by all intents—was no longer to mine to claim. None would dare believe a priestess could be reduced to this; this face, this body--these were cursed by Divine words themselves. Townspeople flocked in fear to strike the demoness down, blades drawn.

The fear was ice in my veins; I froze when I should have fled--

But he looked in my eyes...

It was he who was frozen instead, his visage cast in stony pallor.

I... I was as shocked as any onlooker.

I did not want this.

I mean no danger.

He was the first death at my hands, but would not be the last.

Word spreads far and wide of a dangerous monster, with a writhing mane of snakes and a petrifying stare. Me, the famed monstress—laughable, if it weren't true.

But it is, isn't it?

I hoped that my humanity would shine past this form, that a goodness of spirit would stay their hand. The opposite proved true: in their eyes, that was never an option—I was something less than human, something beyond both their comprehension and compassion.

On the run, I grew too familiar with their rage, their fear... their ignorance.

Athena fashioned me into a nightmare, a twisted sense of humor to accompany her tempestuous justice. Poseidon may have stolen my peace of body, but she destroyed my peace of form, my peace of being.

Some whisper that she did it for my protection, that I'd never need fear another man's touch—be they god or mortal. A blessing in disguise, they say.

Blessing or not, this is my nightmare... to be cast off, disposable to those I've dedicated my life to, my whole being to. I have given all to my goddess, yet I walk the path forward without the kinship of my people, without the comfort of camaraderie.

They have taken all I've given and discarded me for an offense that was not mine to perpetrate. Be it willful or not, her misplaced judgment blames me—I offended her eye and so dearly paid the price.

And I'll continue to pay it, as long as I live and breathe.

After all, gone are the days where I could freely walk amongst my fellow man, of sidling through the agora while sellers raucously hawk their wares. Gone are the hushed talks with temple maidens whilst filling ceremonial amphoras, the gentle laughter ringing rosy and bright in memory. Gone are the courtyard contemplations—quiet, but not too much so—the sounds of Athens humming in the background.

Gone, gone, all gone.

I gave and still they took. They hollowed out my past with their misdeeds, took ever more with their punishments; they turned well-meaning giving into tragic loss.

With a heavy heart, I mourn this loss, this death of a past self. I know the stories of gods' follies—babes are retold our mythical histories all whilst bounced at the knee. While one hardly swaggers about expecting to become storied legends, we know what happens if you do: there's no going back.

My fate is sealed.

Mayhaps it was a stroke of luck to happen upon the battered Chimera, a powerfully lithe beast. She takes the form of a maned lioness, whose maw breathes scorching fire akin to a fearsome drakon. From her proud visage spirals two finely grooved goat horns, whilst her hind sprouts a hissing dappled viper for a tail.

Yet more striking were the extent of her wounds: the bright weals along her shoulders, the slashes marking her snout, the deep gashes on her haunches. She leaves a trail of crimson, the pained retreat of a monster.

I knew it too well.

I stole into nearby villages, took my lion's share in the night: an abundance of linen bandages, ointments, a ceremonial dagger, a string of harnessed goats, herbal seasonings.

Thus I followed from afar for a little more than a week, with increasing concern and six ornery goats in tow; I could tell her flight was reopening her wounds, yet one approaches a dangerous beast with caution—especially an injured one with nothing left to lose.

But slowly, the right time came. She slept heavy in the night, the reckless abandon of her wanderings softened in rest.

I slew each goat in the Temple's way: a soft blessing punctuated by slitting the throat of the sacrificial animal. Though it had been years, the ceremonial dagger was all too familiar in my hand, the prayer swiftly dredged up from heavy memories like second nature.

The first goat I left in the night, a scrap of my dress tied to its horn.

The second I left at dawn, as she began to stir awake.

The third I stayed present, yet a ways away. I saw her devour the offering in a few bites, her eyes staring out in my direction. Her powerful jaws gnawed gently, almost lady-like, on the goat skull before crunching down on the bone. She quickly spat out the horns before her, which hollow-clattered comically against the ground.

The fourth I butchered, tossing the cuts to her from above as she traversed the depths of a ravine—and I followed alongside her course.

The fifth and sixth I fed her by hand.

To her, I spoke softly in snake tongue; her tail would reply in kind. I gently bandaged her wounds, slathered ointments on thick as she flinched beneath my touch; up close, I warned her not to look straight into my eyes, for fear that I would affect a beast as mighty as her.

We were uneasy friends at first, yet we eased into our companionship quickly—two she-beasts joined by their wanderings, a kinship built in the periphery. I learned to trust her instinct for danger and she learned to favor seasoned meats, cooked first by the flames of her maw.

She always, always preferred goat. She said it tasted of new beginnings.

We fall into a rhythm together, making a life for ourselves far from humans—complete with its own little rituals. Deep in the western reaches, we make our abode in the ruins of a temple, the marble crumbled in disrepair. Though I scarcely seem to age, the Chimera only grows in size; once, she stood at the height of my shoulder, but she grows to tower high above, taller than the temple itself.

I knew better than to inquire as to where she was finding dinner...

In time, Stheno and Euryale—young women similarly beset by fickle transformations—find their way to us. Though strangers by blood, we are bound by the divine injustice that made us so, serpentine sisters-in-arms. This bond is as beautiful as it is precious, a solidarity that triumphs over the gods' great spurn.

Mankind still fearfully whispers of our whereabouts, dubbing our crumbling ruins the Gorgons' Lair, The name Gorgon is wholly their making,--a moniker that heralds no fanfare, only misplaced fear.

Even with their hysterical fear, it is a state of being was peaceful enough for all of us.

Under the heavy velvet of the twilit sky, I croon snake song to the chimeric beast; she rests her muzzle on my lap, her snake tail swaying slow and calm. I softly caress her face, tracing along the curve of her ear, her cheek, her jaw. Moving further down, I skritch below her chin, as if the beast in my lap is naught but a gentle house cat. Though she has ceased her fire-breathing, her breath runs hot on my fingers—especially as she laps at my hand with her grizzled tongue and offers me gentle yet keen-edged love nibbles.

Even her tender, affectionate acts spin up warning signs, but her eyes are wide with naught but innocent intentions, craving only attention.

A rumbling purr sounds from the beastie, who pushes her scarred face further into my hand. I smile softly to myself, oblige all the kindnesses she craves--strokes and scratches, chib rubs and tickles--as dusk turns to star-tossed night.

This—this is the most peace I have felt since my hapless transformation. Perhaps this is how things are, how they will be: mayhaps I find myself in the company and confidence of monsters.

Yet, the peace doesn't last.

They won't let it, be they god or man.

It matters not whether we are a threat, only that they feel we are.

Their hero approaches, mirrored shield in hand and a blade whet to a razored finish.

Bemusedly, I think to myself: Little man, do you know your gods' blessing makes you neither grand nor righteous? They are fickle as can be.

My sisters? They scatter—they stood by me in the face of god's wrath once and lived its consequences since. They fear a repeat of history; I hold no grudge against them.

I'm sorry Stheno, Euryale; this quarrel with man's folly is not wholly yours to reckon with.

So, is this the good that the gods have imprinted upon man: to slay the she-beast in her distant den, to contest a conflict of their own making?

I have never aggressed, only acted in self-defense. You fear my power, yet no evidence points toward any catastrophe you claim. You call me treacherous, but your fear is built on no proof--only dizzying panic. I live in no castles, no great city: I am no conqueror, no menace to your societal farce.

I have only this decaying remnant of safety and comfort, and still you deny me peace. You would redeem your heroes at the expense of my dignity, so comfortable are you in your slander.

Do you fear my power because you fear what you've done to me, gods? Do you wish to make an example of me, to show that your petty deeds have no repercussions?

I simply ask, what does my silence buy you? You would mount my head on your shield and proclaim me a symbol of your divine glory, rather than coexist with your living, breathing shame—a reminder of your ill-birthed temper?

If your shame is so deep that my very existence offends you, then why have you not questioned the deeds you do, the punishments you dole, the quests you set into action?

You mock me with your judgments.

I am not the monster you believe me to be.

Their divinity condemns them to eternal ignorance; they will never question their choices nor understand their damages. So the cycle continues, gods and their ill-fated playthings: Io, Europa, Cassandra, Daphne, Semele, Hyacinthus... countless names that bleed into forgotten ones lost to history—and now my name appends this tragic queue: Medusa.

Merely mortals, we are pawns on their divine chessboard: endlessly breakable, disposable, inconsequential.

Were we only given reason to understand their callousness, or was it rather to prove the unconditional worship of the unforgivable? Tell me, is there more to comprehending our smallness in their grand game?

This end, impending as it is, echoes the beginning too closely. So I ask, why does he—this hero, if he can even be called so—define the remainder of my story?

These contemplations only fill empty air—no answer comes. None ever will.

There is nowhere left to run; all that's left is to stand my ground, even as my end looms imminent.

I dare not despair.

I will hold in my faith: if not in gods, then in the intellect and goodness of mankind. Misplaced, mayhaps, but—

I hope that, one day, they learn.

Deep in the ruins of my den, I feign sleep—I grow tired of running, of being their monster in the dark. What choice will he make when faced with his victim: will I be sympathetic or, rather, an undeniable monster?

He believes himself stealthy, but I hear him approach.

I dare not look up.

The sword swings down with a whoosh. The steel bites cold as it cleaves my neck.

There... there is my answer.

I feel the sensation of feathers and hide rip out from within my wound, faintly hear the trumpeting whinny of a horse. There is the thunderous thump of powerful wingbeats—

And amid this ruckus, the hero flees light-footed, churlish yet victorious, under the cover of his Helm of Shadows; my head lolls in his knapsack, serpentine hair hissing their unnerving death rattle.

Faintly, I hear the Chimera rear up onto her hind legs and scream, a fiery rampaging blood-curdling roar of rage.

Gods have mercy on those beset by a Chimera’s grieving rampage…

The merciful black subsumes me at last--

I follow into its depths, gratefully.