I AM IRON AND I FORGE MYSELF

So. Rikyn poofs, the game’s afoot, and she spies Weaver’s companion working double time, so that the black and white soldier can try to steal something. She has to hand it to the Pegasus – her companion is useful and clever, which makes Wessex mentally cheer for the pair. Beloved is useless as always, and the fifth member of the party has a similar meandering pace to herself, which she assumes means he’s not going to participate in the light-hearted (debateable) fun.  So it’s not much of a contest, but watching it is entertaining. Taking her eyes off the stalkers, she studies the blue, clear water in search of items that might be useful to bring back to the crafters – Oh! A prickly little round thing. The word for it is somewhere in the back of her head, but she can’t quite remember.

Those spikes (seems like she’s naturally drawn to other spiney creatures) might be useful for needles and other such things. Gently, she nudges the ball out of its home in the sand and with a carefully aimed kick, knocks it onto the dry sand for collection later. A bag would be useful right about now… and it it’s all of a sudden blindingly bright, more than any natural flash or light that Wessex has ever known. Her eyes slam shut, mind screaming that that isn’t natural, and when she cautiously tries to open them again, finds the spots dancing before her eyes a disorienting mess when mixed with the ever moving ocean and the dazzling light it refracts.

Get out of the water! Comes the cry, desperately urgent, loud and… directed at her? Blinking furiously, she scans the outer water and finds three fins cutting through the eerily calm surface.

Not just her, it seems, as Wessex was wading along, not swimming, and it would have to be the sneaky, small shark to come in to water that reached just under her barrel and attack her legs. Nevertheless, she noisily splashes to hock-deep surf, side-stepping to keep an eye on one fin even as it turns towards her. It can’t reach her while she’s mostly on the beach. However… the ruckus over by the rock outcrop draws her attention. Something doesn’t seem right…

The way the fish-woman reaches up – she feels like she’s seen that sort of gesture before. Wessex moves even closer, trying to figure out what it is. The strain, the tension, it’s almost like she needs the bird to come down – but for what?

W E S S E X