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I AM IRON AND I FORGE MYSELF
There is beauty in the sword, he says, and Wessex must nod in agreement. She’s seen it too; the fluid form of her mother’s body as she moved seamlessly through offensive and defensive moves, instructing her women in the fine art of warfare. There is also something majestic about forty mares moving in sync, learning how to hone fat into muscle and reflexes into skill.
“True,” she says, needing no superfluous words to either elaborate or disagree. Brevity is the soul of wit, and the sarcasm is strong in this one.
She finds herself snorting, however, as he titles himself. The Puppeteer? Almost as soon as her mind processes the moniker, she begins to wonder if it’s hubris or hidden power he possesses. And if it the latter, then exactly who does he wish to manipulate? And why? “Wessex,” she chooses to say first, followed by an ever-so-slight pause and a very dry-sounding “- the Mutant.” Because who the fuck knows if this changing thing will ever stop. But back to keeping the attention off of herself.
Looking him up and down with an examining eye, she keeps her thoughts to herself for now. But oh, she would love to hear more about this puppeteering business - either that, or watch him flounder. “Do explain,” she requests bluntly, for her own surname need no further explanation. Both their chosen titles had negative connotations, which is a sure sign of kindred spirits, if there ever was one. And if Wessex knew what whiskey and cigars were, she might offer them to Rikyn as a friendly bribe to keep his tongue a-wagging.
W E S S E X
@Rikyn
-- magic and force allowed, no death or permanent damage --
