I AM IRON AND I FORGE MYSELF

Even after a couple of months here, Wessex has yet to meet everyone. The Basin provides just enough opportunity for its residents to hide themselves away from the world or mix and mingle according to their moods. She’s found they are more solitary than, say, other groups she’s been a part of, but that suits the mottled mare just fine. Too much chit-chat grates on her nerves. If something can be said in four words then use four, not eight. The exception seems to be for Tiamat. Wessex would allow the Ocean’s Light to babble in her presence all she wants, and would never say a word against it. Such is the power of infatuation. Whichever camp this healer falls into doesn’t matter to the mottled warrior, she simply offers the mare a stiff smile when she arrives - it soon turns to one of mixed skepticism as she watches the woman and the General interact. Is that a look of affection she sees from this far off? A breath of love, conveyed simply in the way he says her name?

So the Tin Man does have a heart after all.

When it is her turn, Wessex whispers quietly to the Healer before anything is done. “Leave some scars - the ladies seem to like them.” The magical part of the healing is a bit of a mystery to her still, but that doesn’t diminish her appreciation as the stinging dulls and fades into a distant throb. Her head bobs up and down in thanks, accompanied with a gruff, “Appreciate it.” She’s sure Enna’s services will be needed again soon enough - for as long as there are idiots who throw themselves against each other, there will be smarter folk who knit them back together again.

Reaching down to grip the bloody bearskin in her teeth in order to sling it on her back, Wessex’s hair begins to stand on end as a devious, chilling winds rises from nothing. It howls around them, and just as Wessex spots the bear rising from the dead, she is bombarded by several stings, in succession, from her flanks to her nose. Utterly surprised by the turn of events, she cannot hide the tinge of fear that colors the yelp that squeaks out as she skitters to one side, head lowered in warning to the undead beast. Erebos’s voice cuts through the danger, finding some sort of explanation for the miraculous, but even as he commands the troops to leave, he places himself in harm’s way, playing the noble card without ever thinking that he needn’t sacrifice himself for this. They could easily outrun this magically knit together creature.

It’s a particularly stupid move in her mind, and so she turns to face the stallion, aiming her horns at him now. Sharply, she half-yells, “Don’t be an idiot, Erebos. We all go - split up and outrun it!”

See, there’s this thing called ‘leave no man behind’ (unless they’re already dead). That’s a hard and fast rule for Wessex - for better or for worse.

W E S S E X