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I AM IRON AND I FORGE MYSELF
Let’s be honest; if we’re going with the lady-loving theme, Wessex is the butch lady who’s built, and perhaps just a tad scary. All horns and mottled fur and hard muscle to lean against, with an ‘I just don’t know what I want/fledgeling lesbian’ attitude - oh baby! She’d unconsciously had her eyes on Tiamat (look, she doesn’t know that yet, so cut her some slack, ok?) since rescuing her from the Marsh, and this is just a… little bit of further exploration, shall we say?
Somewhere between nervous and over it already, the Basin soldier lingers near the fire, altogether unsure of how to proceed. Battles? Fine. Guarding? Fine. Patrolling? She’s fucking amazing at that. Meeting others? Errrr… at least the soldierly training is kicking in so she doesn’t look anxious. A pretty little thing with a braided mane and crystal crown also seems to hesitate by the fire, and purely by process of elimination (there is no one else), Wessex steps forward. Boldly. Becaue there is no other way to do this. “Manon?” she asks, casually? As if she’s cool as a cucumber and not trying to find a logical reason why she shouldn’t be here, or why this won’t go wrong.
After waiting for a confirmation, she says simply, with the tiniest bit of a grin, “I’m Wessex.
W E S S E X
@Manon No worries! Thanks for putting me back in :)
-- magic and force allowed, no death or permanent damage --
