.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
I AM IRON AND I FORGE MYSELF
Wessex is was about as straight-laced as you get, owing mostly to a mother who set high expectations for her heir, and then to discipline the Mercs required. She knew full well what the rest of her company went to do on their nights off - they’d return to camp on unsteady legs, reeking of foul substances and often had well-adorned company with them. Without the ability to vomit, their mornings were the types of hell Dante would kill to write about. So our proud little soldier-girl steadfastly avoided indulging unto excess, which included most mind-altering drugs. Some monsters you only want to fight once.
The sound of voices nearby rouses the dozing soldier, who incidentally, did not sleep particularly deeply. Her ears fick back and forth, identifying one of the voices, and then wondering why they hadn’t noticed her - oh, her glowing side was conveniently facing away from them. More curious than anything, the horned woman ambles out of her leafy bed and towards the pair, immediately thinking that it’s a rather odd combination. Ah, but what does Wessex know? Comradery can be found in the strangest of places - just look at their crazy little Beloved.
Utterly oblivious (and isn’t that the fun of it?), she spies the flowers (unknown to her, as she was absent from the herbology lesson) and arches her brow in question. “Midnight snack?” she asks, because why the fuck else would they be searching for edibles (ha, ha, ha) in the non-medicinal section of the garden, in the middle of the night?
W E S S E X
@Weaver
@Albrecht
-- magic and force allowed, no death or permanent damage --
