Past entries from the email game.

First entry:
From the peak of Mt. Olympus, cast down unto mortal
soil, we scrabble to find purchase amongst strangers.
Born of the spark of Zeus' lightening, chased by the
war hounds of Ares and honed by the grace of Artemis,
we are women forged together with the chains of
Hephaestus. None shall break us. Bowing to no man, we
will fall and die with pride before we surrender. We
live to fight for the beauty and glory of battle.
Flashing steel, blood, sweat and victory are our
ambrosia. Our determination is unwaivering. Respect is
measured only by the strength of your sword arm and
the dexterity of your battle dance. We are birthed to
this plane and we hit the ground running. We are
beauty, grace, strength, honor and glory. We are
women. We are Amazons.

Second:
Lightening splits a darkened sky. The spring rains
fall in torrents like a lover's forlorn tears. The
contrast between the warm air and the cold rain steals
my breath away. Darkness fills my vision. Seconds
count down to the clashing thunder which still
reverberates in my heart beats. The tang of sweat and
blood washes over my senses. This is a dance. A dance
of death in darkness. Muscles taut, I wait for the
next fork of lightening to spot my opponent through
the shadows. Instinct coupled with honed reflexes, I
jump, tuck and roll. The ringing of metal sets my
teeth on edge as I bring down my sword against hers.
She kicks out as I leap aside and her sword draws
across my thigh, painting bloody patterns as if her
steel were merely an artist's brush. Pain. Burning. I
feel the moisture run rivulets over my knee. The wound
is shallow but I use the adrenaline to push me harder
and faster. A cacophony of ringing erupts as my arm
swings over and over against her, sometimes meeting
steel and other times meeting flesh. Back and back she
goes, never seeing the wall I am pinning her against.
Surrender is not an option. Wisely, she does not even
try. She punches and kicks out desperately to regain
purchase. Her parries are treasures to my eyes. She
has learned much. But with skill also comes
experience. She is like a young foal, learning how to
walk on shaky legs. But, there is hope, she has the
fire and passion of battle. Even after her sword falls
to the ground, she still fights on. Knowing she is
defeated, I can end this at any time. But, even in
lessons there are victories and defeats. As my fist
travels towards her face, I only see the respect she
has for me in her eyes. A mother's loving touch gifts
her with a blackened eye. Had I been her enemy she
would be dead. These are the hard facts of battle.
There are no draws. Only winners and dead. In truth,
she was lucky I did not break a limb. Later, she will
show the others her eye with pride, my beloved warrior
daughter, Hippolyte. How proud her father would be, if
only he could see her now.

Third:
The sun saunters its way over the horizon. A sky,
painted a myriad of pastel colors serves as a backdrop
for farewells. Pinks, yellows, blues and greens all
swirling together in a tinge of both sadness and hope.
I hear the girls preparing for their departure.
Excitement and wanderlust echo through their words.
Striding through their ranks, I inspect their packs
with a critical eye. Each of them has made thorough
preparations for their respective journeys. I am very
pleased. Though we have only been in this city a short
time, it has become our home of sorts. Though we all
embrace the dream of our final home. Indeed, that is
what they seek. Environs more suited for training our
warriors. Farewells are always hard. But I am their
queen and I must be strong. I bid them safe journey as
I watch the distance grow between us. A chilled breeze
blows a fallen leaf through the air. Shivering, I feel
moisture gather upon my cheeks. Tears. It would also
seem I am more than an Amazon Queen. I am also a
mother who has just set the world upon her daughters,
come what may.

Fourth:
The room is darkened with evening's shadows. A full
moon hangs low in the sky and shines her shimmering
light through the window. Embers flare briefly in the
corner from the small balefire within its grate,
providing occasional and unexpected light. The myrrh
incense curls intricate patterns through the air from
the prepared altar. The sweet tang of the anointing
ritual oils rubbed into tanned and warm flesh wafts
along the breeze to my nostrils, exciting my other
senses. She sits across from me within her circle
drawn onto the stone floor with a charred stick. Her
smokey eyes are hidden from me behind her closed lids.
A wrinkle across her brow defines the depth of her
concentration. Her long black hair lays unbound down
her back and stirs in the air like playful woodland
wisps. It was her spirit and those blackened locks
that named her aptly, Melanippe, Black Mare. The air
stills and I sense her drawing the energy within,
holding it, storing it and controlling it. Raising her
arms out in front of her, she moves her palms up and
outward, long fingers pointing skyward. Slowly at
first, she begins forming the protective shield around
her, weaving energy like spooled lamb's wool. With a
soft hum, the shield settles into place. Though her
eyes are closes, her mouth twitches into a crooked
smile and I know she enjoys her triumph. A loud pop
from the flaming logs do not stir her an inch. Without
warning, her hands begin to move in intricate
patterns. With trained eyes, I can see the energy she
summons, twisting it, turning it and molding it into
her will. The patterns are advanced for her. Perhaps
she is too confident. Overconfident mages often times
end up stiff, cold and buried beneath cairns. Unable
to assist, I watch my daughter tempt fate, hoping
wisdom will guide her hands and luck will grace her
stubbornness. Despite the chilled seasonal air, the
room grows quite warm. Ah. She plays with fire. The
energy within her hands takes on a ruddy crimson color
defining its elemental properties. Intently watching
her patterning hands, my ears are neglectful of her
chanting. Cupping her hands together she shouts the
releasing word, "Incendo!". A small red flame appears
with her hands, greedily feeding upon the air. A sad
denouement to the theatrical bravado. Unable to
contain my mirth, I laugh aloud. Her eyes snap open
only in time to see the tiny flame extinguish and her
shield dissipate. Foolish child, always racing ahead.
She must learn to maintain her concentration better
before she begins further work with the elements. I
shall have her peeling potatoes for a week. Perhaps
that will deepen her concentration skills and teach
her not to be so prideful and go beyond her
capabilities. A small pout of defeat decorates her
features. Rising from the floor, I walk towards her.
No words are needed. Taking her chin within my hand, I
raise her head so that she looks me in the eye. The
disappointment she finds there is punishment enough.
With a soft smile, I bend and kiss her forehead. With
one word, I extinguish the balefire, pouring darkness
into the room. My footsteps softly reveal my retreat
as I leave her with her thoughts and the sound of my
swirling robes moving over the mosaic floor.

Fifth:
Moonlight shines on an ocean's surface. Words fail to
capture the magnificence of this moment. A cool breeze
ripples the sails like fresh linens out to dry. The
night is so quiet and yet so alive, even the air
vibrates with energy. The soothing sounds of the water
lapping against the sides of the boat lull me into a
half slumber. The creatures beneath the water rise to
the surface, curiosity outweighing their hesitance.
And there she stands, at the bow of the boat, as if
she were it's figurehead, forging ahead through the
depths of this ocean. Antiope. Her name means
Confronting Moon and when she sails nothing stands in
her way. Hair, caught in a tight braid, lashes behind
her in the night's breeze, like a sail unbound.
Beneath the moon and stars, her skin looks wan and
belies the deep amber color the sun has baked into her
during her voyages. Her soul belongs to these waters.
Perhaps if you lifted a conch shell to your ear, you
could hear the echoes of her heartbeat. It is as if
the very wind stirs her into motion like this ship
upon its waves. Her blistered fingers, always pulling
at ropes to this or that sail, drum silently against
the wood of the ship. The waves roll gently against
the ship, like a lover's body deep in the throes of
passion and she smiles. Despite the salty water biting
into her cuts and scraps and despite the sharp tang of
rotting fish and plant-life, still she smiles. And, in
that smile, captures all the beauty of this ocean.
When I look in my daughter's blue-green eyes, I am
lost in her ocean.