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I AM IRON AND I FORGE MYSELF
The sea draws her attention far more than Rikyn’s words - the lull of the lapping waves and the smell of salt in the air whisk her away to a happier time, when she played at stalking crabs and hunting tidal pool fish with a couple of other kids from the court. With a clear sky, the sun beats down on their unprotected backs - and a big girl like Wessex tends to overheat. Look for clues… or stuff for the time menders… same old, same old… yadda yadda yadda. This search for clues would turn up nothing, as per usual, and they would all go back to the Basin, frustrated.
They are at the mercy of a God-like thing, and Wessex privately doubts that he’s left any clues lying around on the beach for them to find. If he can build an altar out of bones and conjure up monsters, he can erase signs of his presence, right?
Ah, but no one asked Wessex. She’s just a grunt.
When the small group dissipates, the horned mare heads straight for the water, sighing in delight as the coolness hits her forelegs, then her chest and shoulders. Turning her head away from the surf and spray, she looks to the shore (not so far away), and sees nothing out of the ordinary. The next wave breaks over her back, lifting Wessex’s hooves off the sandy floor. She laughs a little, enjoying the feeling of weightlessness - it is such a rare thing for one who is, as others say, ‘built like a tank.’
W E S S E X
-- magic and force allowed, no death or permanent damage --
