The Bay of Plenty was boiling. Te Wheke-a-Muturangi, the octopus so large it could wrap an island, rose from the depths. Tidal Webbing. It sought to drag the land into the sea, its tentacles smashing the cliffs.
On the highest peak stood Hera, Queen of Olympus. She was not impressed by the display of slimy aggression.
"You stain the water," she critiqued.
The Grasp of the Deep
One massive tentacle, thick as a redwood trunk, lashed out at the goddess. Arm-to-Island Transmutation. It aimed to crush her against the rock.
Hera did not dodge. Royalty does not dodge seafood.
She opened her eyes—all of them. Argus' Sight.
Though Argus was dead, his thousand eyes lived on in her peacock feathers. She saw the octopus not just as a monster, but as a biological mechanism. She saw the nerve clusters. She saw the fear.
The Decree
"I deny you the water," Hera commanded. Oathbinding of Hera.
Her voice was the law. The ocean listened. It recoiled.
The water around Te Wheke turned hard, rejecting the beast. The sea level dropped instantly, leaving the giant octopus stranded on the suddenly dry seabed. Without the buoyancy of the water, its massive bulk collapsed under its own weight. It flailed, suffocating in the air.
Hera smoothed her dress. "Die with dignity," she ordered, and turned her back as the great beast expired in the sun.