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I AM IRON AND I FORGE MYSELF
Before she can introduce herself, Erebos’s voice calls to them from the ridge, and her head jerks toward the General, gaze and breath directed upwards. It is Oizy’s retort, however, which breaks her stoic soldiery-ness. She doesn’t expect anyone else to get it, because neither of them had been there when Tiamat (their new Lady!) joked about the Basin being the cuddling type of herd in the winter months. But perhaps one of them would find it amusing, so she directs her retort to the tri-horned mare, saying just as saucily, “You wouldn’t be the first. We’re cuddling fiends here in the Basin.” She finishes with a stone-faced seriousness, as if every word she utters is the absolute truth.
See, General of mine, her gaze says when it meets his brazen wink, I, too, can jest.
But her role in this exchange is fast coming to a close, and she knows it is not her place to accept or deny a potential member. This mare seems ok, easy with the give-and-take of banter, and if truth be told she would welcome another soldier (what else does she plan to do with those wicked looking horns? They could be quite the pair…). But Oizys does not address Erebos by name, so before the General completely takes over, Wessex interjects and introduction, “Oizys, this is Erebos, our General.” Her legs take two steps backwards, leaving her at the gray-blue stallion’s shoulder, all shadow and keen orange eyes.
Whatever had happened in the Marsh, Wessex hadn’t noticed. Oizy’s slate was clean with her.
W E S S E X
@Oizys @Erebos
-- magic and force allowed, no death or permanent damage --
