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I AM IRON AND I FORGE MYSELF
A deep, rich bellow shakes the air around the Sentinel, causing Wessex to pause and turn her head back towards the entrance to the Basin. Her ears flicker towards the origin with animated curiosity; their border has been rather active recently - which makes sense, because who in their right minds would trek up to the freaking Arctic circle in the middle of winter, unless they have some sort of internal warming device deep in their belly? Lifting her head to the sky, Wessex returns the summons with her own deep-chested call - letting the visitor know that he’s been heard, and also signaling to other potential patrollers that she’s got this one.
The call sounded masculine, but Wessex has been mistaken for a male before, so she wouldn’t be surprised if there were another rough-and-tumble sort like her at the border. Over the ridgeline, which is littered in bright green grass clumps and the occasional northern flower, she goes. Surefooted now, after a couple months of walking this route, she makes decent time. A relaxed, but large stallion waits before the decaying metal statue, blue dragon hovering above him. Neutral, but inquisitive gaze studies his unusual markings as she draws closer, and finds the scent of sand on him.
Ah, another Throat-er. That must have been quite the journey. One only goes this far if they want something. So when she is within talking distance, the horned mare calls out to the visitor, “Can I help you?”
W E S S E X
@Astarot
-- magic and force allowed, no death or permanent damage --
