I AM IRON AND I FORGE MYSELF

In truth, the sleek and angular woman who bedecked herself in sparkly bits and enchanting loops of hair did not stay in Wessex’s mind for long. Not because the soldier did not find her match’s confidence and easy sexuality enchanting, but because there was simply so much else to do. As far as the horned woman is concerned, her match was such stuff as dreams were made of, prancing in and out of slumber on an irregular basis (only, it seemed, when her body did not immediately yank her down, down, down, into unconscious sleep). They were pleasant evenings, and in them she found herself far more smooth than her bumbling first impression could ever relay.

Like most ego driven events, we are usually either magnificent or pathetic; there is rarely a run-of-the-mill dream.

With summer officially here, Wessex finds herself wanting to explore before the weather turns cool again. She casts a wider course on her patrols, creating a map in her mind of a land that is becoming larger and larger and larger. The sun’s heat beats down upon her mottled back, burning hotter upon this green refuge than the thistle-clad plains below. Despite the fairly recent events, the field is peaceful - full of natural noises and a light breeze. Grass rustles with the movement of small rodents, while songbirds sit, singing in the trees on the fringe. It is an absolutely perfect day. Even the clouds are fluffy and light, as they float slowly across a light blue sky.

How out of place she must look - the mutant in an untroubled, untouched paradise.  

W E S S E X

I AM IRON AND I FORGE MYSELF

Wessex has never had someone scrutinize her gait before. She probably walks everywhere in a soldierly manner (except when she’s feeling particularly awkward and/or flustered about a pretty face) - and it happens to come out extra soldiery when she’s officially on a patrol. Double extra soldiery with the addition of a fresh batch of scars trailing down the left side of her withers; they were no longer open wounds that exposed pink flesh to the air, but dark, scabbed-over lines which slice through her light and dark coat like a knife. Courtesy of a bear.

Wessex! floats across the fields to her on airy, feminine tones. It sounds vaguely familiar, tapping gently at her memories until her horned head turns around to see who greeted her with such gaiety. To her delight (and complete surprise), she sees the long-legged beauty from Single’s Night high-stepping across the field to her. A wide smiles stretches, unbidden, across her face, and she greets the Edge Mare by name as well. “Manon!” A loud whicker follows her hail as she moves to meet the sunlit beauty half-way. Perhaps it is the gentle rays of daylight that make her seem far more angelic now than she did before; more sophisticated girl-next-door than fiercely unattainable ethereal being.

“I’d say so,” replies Wessex, as her thick whip of a tail lazes back and forth. Lizard eyes settle on the little details of Manon’s appearance - the blue of her eyes and the twist of her hair - good god, how does she manage to her mane to do that? Maybe one day she’ll ask, but for now, “You look different in the daylight - I like it. What brings you up here?”

Good job, Wessex. Much more smooth this time around.  

W E S S E X

I AM IRON AND I FORGE MYSELF

Perhaps one day Wessex will be a warrior-queen: tall, proud, confident and bold in all her unusual, spiked glory. The type of woman whose quirks her subjects find endearing, and makes her enemies think twice about any tomfoolery. She would like to inspire devotion, admiration and fear all in the same breath. In short, she would endeavor to be like her mother, and as there are no other female idols that have come to replace the late, great Lagertha, Wessex must do with the childish, idealized version of the Warrior Queen. She need never know of her dam’s flaws. Ever.

This dance that she is doing with Manon is utterly unfamiliar. Stuck in a feeling that has nothing to do with her bulk, she feels clumsy, as if the beautiful woman might be secretly laughing at her for such obvious and infantile efforts. To what result? She does not know. Two mares cannot make a child, and even then does she want to be responsible for any more lives?

Ah, but Wessex’s brain is five steps ahead of her body. Call it anxiety, or something else. Nerves. The side effects of twitter-pated syndrome.

“It’s the horns, right?” Wessex jokingly quips back. “If you’d met me as a child, you’d probably look right past me – but these babies are my calling card now. I’ll consider them a success now that you’re talking to me.” This time, her words come with an ease and blatant flirting that she would not be able to manufacture around Tiamat. That bit of information is stored away for later analysis.   “I’m on a very leisurely patrol,” she responds, acknowledging the fact that she should be working, but this distraction is much more appealing. Her muscular shoulders roll, rippling beneath the tips of dragon ears and mottled fur. “Oh, this and that – fighting bears and fellow warriors, exploring… the usual.”

Is that the ‘usual?’ Hell, Wessex doesn’t know. She’s making everything up as she goes. “And you? Does the Edge keep you busy?” The thought occurs to the Corporal that she’d like to bring the pretty little thing back to the Basin to (no- not that, get your mind out of the gutter)  show her around, and request a reciprocating tour when the weather turns cold – when she would rather be anywhere but the ice-covered Basin.

W E S S E X