I AM IRON AND I FORGE MYSELF

The night is dark and full of terrors…

Oh, how Wessex knows that all too well. The shadows of the trees lengthen before her, and instead of turning back to the Basin for the evening, she pushes on, the horns on her head sprouting into some gruesome sort of shadow-monster. A stunted Medusa. An overly horned Minotaur. But while she may fancy herself to be a legendary warrior mare in her own due time, she is not now - she is simply Wessex, Aurora Basin Corporal. Woman of few words, but with these she banters, and with her body, she protects.

In the depths of the Threshold wood, a voice catches her attention. Hear ears swivel behind her horns to catch the sound, and determines that it has the piping tone of a child. She frowns, lips pursing together into a thin, straight line. The sound of her disapproval (and concern - let it be noted that she first and foremost concerned about a child out here, at the edges of Helovia) catches in her throat, and she calls out, “Hello? Who’s out there?” Heavy hooves moves in what she thinks is the right direction, and it is not long before her efforts are rewarded. A small dancing shadow moves amongst still ones, and her lizard eyes catch a glimpse of the origin. Without waiting to see who the child (or children) are, she weaves towards them, doing her best to remain unimposing - which is, you know, a bit of a challenge sometimes.

“Are you supposed to be out at the Threshold alone?” she asks the two of them - before realizing that one is far closer to adulthood than the other. Wessex assumes they are both Helovian foals, horsing around beyond the reach of adults.

W E S S E X

I AM IRON AND I FORGE MYSELF

Oh they’re all so witty, aren’t they? Teenage rebellion makes for boldened hearts and barbed tongues - quick to slice and dice, but slow to realize that their invulnerability is due more to the efforts of others than their youthful, swaggering bravado. Wessex’s gaze remains steady, unyielding as she takes in the boy’s retort. Her response holds no malice, no biting remark to try and show him who’s boss (though is there any really doubt who might win in a fight?). She’s as cool as a cucumber, even as the younger horned-and-feathered boy chimes in that there’s no one stopping him. Well, of course not. But that didn’t answer her question about whether or not they’re supposed to be out there, on the cusp of their world, while the clinging tendrils of night descend upon Helovia.

“Yes, actually. I am. As the second-highest rank in the Basin’s army, it’s important to patrol all of Helovia, not just our herd land. Especially given the uncertainty of the Kaos situation.” The latter half of that statement is directed more at the younger colt, who seems to be more of a Helovian than the other, who smells of Not-Helovia. The bone-beast killed a mare who seemed to know what she was doing, battle-wise. Imagine what it could do to children.

A part of her acknowledges that she is rather out of place in this conversation, but as one of the boys says he’s from the Throat, and offers a home, she can’t help but feel a bit of a competitive edge coming on. Which is utterly ridiculous, the logical part of her argues, because they were off to a rough start (there was never any condescension in her question, not that she can control how the lad feels), and why the hell should a grown mare compete with a colt? On the other hand, her pride says she can’t just let that comment about the ‘best warriors’ slide.

“Or you could try the Basin, up north - we’re a hardy, independent bunch. And our warriors just took down a bear last week.” She throws a wink to the Throat colt, as if to say that this out-doing each other is all in good fun. That bear was a hell of a fight, though - and she’s got the marks to prove it.

W E S S E X

I AM IRON AND I FORGE MYSELF

Was Wessex being petty? Yes. And the voice of her dead mother comes unbidden, reminding her of honor and compassion and the duty to protect. She grumbles to herself, eyes rolling on the inside as the great warrior queen bears down on her with eyes that she can never forget. The ‘you’re disappointing me’ eyes - the ‘I know you can do better’ appraisal in her hard, blue-gray stare.

Perhaps that is why Saiorse’s challenge goes unanswered, because she could easily lie and the child would never know - but what’s the point of that? What makes her look impressive in the moment could easily make her look shitty in several hours/days/weeks.

Her horns dip down and up as she nods in agreement, tacking on some more information. “He killed a warrior at his appearance, and we’re trying to figure out how to defeat him and his bone monster.” She makes a face then, indicating just how annoying the problem is, especially without any (as far as she knows) promising leads. Trial and error is all they’ve got at the moment, and perhaps the hope that one of their Gods will come down with some miraculous information. But she’s seen two Gods thus far - and let me tell you, Wessex ain’t impressed with the yelling and the abandonment.

Fortune favors the bold, or so it seems, when the young stallion asks if she could take him there. Her lizard-orange eyes blink several times in surprise, but the mottled mare then quickly recovers. “Of course,” she replies in easy tones. Cause duh, she’s a professional. Like, she does this all the freakin’ time?

A professional who doesn’t know anyone’s name.

“I’m Wessex,” slips out before she turns toward the Basin, in a northeasterly direction. “You are?” she inquires, and then a thoughtful pause. “Hey Throat kid - you want to come visit? I promise you won’t freeze your ass off this time of year.”

Look. It’s a legit concern for some of the southern folk - and quite frankly, Wessex doesn’t blame them. Nobody wants frostbite on their delicate bits.

W E S S E X