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I AM IRON AND I FORGE MYSELF
It would be silly to call the group of them - most with sharp, pointy horns and some experience in battle - sitting ducks. Especially with their fearless leader at the helm. However -
How none of them noticed the rank smell of a recently wakened bear, nor heard the heavy pawsteps is beyond her - but Wessex is as much at fault as the rest of them. Perhaps they trusted too much in the safety of their own home, forgetting that because they have Gods and magic, that there are still creatures who can rip their bellies from chest to cock and spill their guts on the ground. This will not be that day. Not by the hair on their chinny-chin-chins.
A roar causes her to wheel around, vaguely registering Erebos’s words - her ears are alert and pricked to everything else. And on any other day, she might have glowed under that acknowledgement, but today, it is not something she would like to be right about. Here is their predator. Here is their test. Here is what shall set them above the rest. The General leaps towards the bear without a plan, thinking only to attack. But this beast is the size and sort that must be taken on as a coordinated unit, and Wessex yells to Weaver, Beloved, Erebos, “Watch out for the paws! One hard swat could potentially send them stumbling, cracking ribs and drawing blood. She watches as Weaver takes charge of a scared draft (though really, they could use the mare’s strength and size right about now), while traditional horns wave and seek to pierce flesh.
Wessex’s accoutrement are not quite as useful in that regard, so she waits until she sees an opening between the others’ attacks, time enough for the soldier to hurl herself forward and attempt to knock the bear off balance - onto its side, perhaps. Or at least make it clear that this prey is not worth the effort.
W E S S E X
@Erebos
-- magic and force allowed, no death or permanent damage --
