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I AM IRON AND I FORGE MYSELF
Meet you by the Sentinels, Weaver says before she takes off, and Wessex nods curtly to her departing form. It’s a plan.
“Shall we?” she offers to Altar, turning and jerking her head in the direction of the Basin. She waits for his assent, marking the way he moves and keeping her pace slow, but steady. Much like the protected Tiamat when Kaos revealed himself, so does she remain a constant shadow to the large, antlered stranger. A little voice in the back of her mind says that he does not need her aid, that he is somewhat like her and will refuse to show any weakness until he is alone, but that does not stop her. At any signs of exhaustion or a stumble, Wessex pauses and waits at his side, ready to shoulder some weight or offer an encouraging word.
Together, the two large creatures weave their way through the dark forest and into open space, where the light of the moon more easily illuminates a clearer path. From there, the going is easier, and eventually the pair cross the thin stretch of land, skirting peaks and pressing northward. There, at the rust-guarded gait, stand Weaver and a familiar, but technically unknown stallion. He was given a recent promotion as well, Wessex remembers (in the healing ranks?) but his name escapes her. “Ah, just the folks we are looking for,” she calls out in greeting. And it would kill two birds with one stone too, if the stallion is so inclined to accept Altar into the herd.
Wessex cannot deny a growing curiosity about the cryptic, sea-tossed stallion. And eager to see their particular style of healing up close and in person.
W E S S E X
@Altar
@Weaver
@Mortuus Nox
-- magic and force allowed, no death or permanent damage --
