for there are many ways to kill a man they say
Wessex will not be a spoil-sport. The Spirit of the Festival, a celebration of the Basin, is, well, rather infectious. Even brooding Erebos and sour-mouthed Rikyn seem to be enjoying themselves, and The Corporal feels free to mingle as she chooses, wandering amidst the crowds with one eye on the lookout for those who may have had a liiiiiiiiiittle too much to drink, or those who have more nefarious intentions. Thus far, everything seems to be calm and quiet, and she can’t help but cast a wandering eye on several women, letting her orange-yellow gaze rove with a veiled appreciation for their beautiful figures. But, like, not in a creepy way; more in the way that one appreciates a flower in the midst of a meadow, or a beautiful sunset, or the subtle twinkle of a cloudless sky in the depths of night. She admires their natural beauty, she does not leer at them.
When the mottled and horned mare grows tired of watching and never doing, she turns and looks towards the sun, judging it to be about time to set up the games. She finds her fellow soldier, Beloved, and then asks the woman to gather Erebos as well, and then bring them to the open area marked by torches. A frown creases her lips, though, when she realizes they are not yet lit, and she needs someone with some fire or electrical powers to help out. Oh well, it is only an hour to sunset, and for now, enough light remains.
Grabbing a sack of stones and woven vine rings, Wessex hauls them over to ‘her’ area, dumping the contents of the bags on the ground. Neatly, she nudges the rings into piles of four, and then takes the stones in her mouth and places them at increasing distances. Finally, she draws three lines, each about five feet from apart, and indicates where Erebos and Beloved should stand when they arrive. Before taking her own place behind a line, Wessex inhales deeply and bellows across the cleared area towards the Festival floor, “The Games are open!”
Hopefully someone will hear her. Someone who finds amusement in tossing rings onto horns and twitchy tails.
I am Iron and I Forge Myself