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I AM IRON AND I FORGE MYSELF
The sudden crack across the sky and the immediate appearance of a brilliant bolt of lightning wakes Wessex up. Startled, the horned mare snorts and dances about for a moment, utterly convinced someone is out there and wants to get her. And yet (of course) there is no one. Except for an ominous, omnipresent voice calling for the Basin. The kind of voice that demands to be obeyed, even if it hadn’t issued a command. The type of voice you don’t want to fuck with. Nevermind that the mottled newcomer has absolutely no idea who or what could produce such an effect, she thinks it best to, at the very least, investigate.
For Wessex, logical as she is about safety and security, also needs to continue the appearance of fearing nothing and no one. Even all-powerful, god-like voices.
Was that it? Was it a God?
It is rather ethereal and synchronized. Who else could do that? With a hmmmmm in the back of her throat, Wessex turns towards where she thinks the lightning bolt landed, and finds herself rather… early. Odd. There are only two others there, and neither of them are members she’s met. So with a shrug and a little nod to each, Wessex cocks a hind leg and settles down to wait, her gaze roaming mostly over the powerful stallion that stands before them, but occasionally to the two others. What did they think about all this?
W E S S E X
-- magic and force allowed, no death or permanent damage --
