She had heard the name, how could she have not. Stories of his malice were scattered far and wide and Enyo had always hoped that maybe one day she would face him on the battle field to see if the filthy Sumerian lived up to his reputation. But he wasn't filthy at all. Maybe to some who would find the blood, gore and dirt associated with battle to be true filth, sure. But to a goddess who's business was in much the same vein it was different. It wasn't a rolling in mudpits and crawling with parasites sort of filth. He was quite the opposite on initial assessment. He was...
Well, Enyo certainly wouldn't kick him out of bed -as the phrase went, that was for sure. At least not if he didn't go soft on her and the ruthless violence carried over from the battlefield. She had little use for sweetness.
Wait, why was she even thinking that? He was Sumerian. An uncouth barbarian. An uncouth barbarian that felt the need to puff up as he introduced himself. What was the purpose of that? Was he intimidated by her? Did he need to feel bigger, somehow?
That was both pleasing and disappointing at the same time and Enyo had no idea what to make of that.
She chose avoidance. “And I am Enyo,” she felt no need to state her country of origin. He was on her land, it would have been redundant to say it. Enyo continued, deciding to follow the format he had given, “daughter of Zeus and Hera. I am blood, violence and war. I am called the Waster of Cities.” She straightened her posture a bit more, pulling her shoulders back and raising her chin a small amount.
“And if you think you will not be detained in any direction you walk, Sumerian, you have but to step forward.” Her hand gripped her kopis a bit tighter, readying it in case he chose to advance. She didn't care that her armor and sandals were scattered throughout the dead and she didn't care that her tunic was ripped and exposing one leg up to her hip and most of one breast. If he advanced, she'd be ready.