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I AM IRON AND I FORGE MYSELF
That little fucker.
The moment bouts of flame start sprouting out of nowhere around them, Wessex becomes angry. “What the fuck?” she says loudly, balking a bit to try and survey just exactly what is going on. Quickly scanning the area, she sees that the flaming bits are spread out over the area the observers cover. The ones in her immediate vicinity are easy to take care of - Wessex drops to her knees and then rolls back and forth over them quickly, smothering them and covering them in whatever dry dirt she can kick up while on her back.
The bulky woman’s hooves in the air must make quite the funny picture indeed - but it seems a logical response to her. Someone asks about wind magic, and Wessex replies, “Better to smother it! Fire can be unpredictable, wind is too dangerous.” The large mare then races from point to point, joining the ones who aren’t digging a trench in their efforts to stomp out or bury the mischievous flames in their own way. Luckily for Wessex, her hooves are large and she’s taken worse than a couple of minor burns.
W E S S E X
-- magic and force allowed, no death or permanent damage --
