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I AM IRON AND I FORGE MYSELF
Out of the line of immediate fire and action, Wessex watches the chaos unfold: the dragon rise from the river, its attacks, and all the little horses challenging it (or crisped, bleeding, shifting into their own alternative forms), while she shakes her head ever so slightly. Look - that’s a dragon and they’re all horses, even with all their special powers. If they united, they might have a chance, but fire (as she knows all too recently) is a damaging, dangerous weapon. Wessex may be in the Army, but she knows when to charge and when to hold back in reserves.
She is the reserve.
And then another dragon takes to the sky, and Wessex knows that she can be of no help - her skills are better suited to protecting and gathering. She can still feel the pup on her head, and hear its pitiful sounds of fear. Well, she can’t really comfort it, having no hands to cuddle, and no way to knowledge of its language. So, feeling rather foolish for uttering “Hey… buddy? It’ll be ok. Hold on tight,” out loud, Wessex starts to move. Hers is a not the smooth roll of dainty Arabians, but a choppier trot as she moves to pick up the pup Aelfwine discarded and then the clever one who seems to be in shock.
She tries to weave around the mayhem above and around her and collect the little brown blobs - that way, they would at least all be in one spot when something is reconciled - for better or worse.
W E S S E X
Wessex seeks a Hellfire Hellhound
No prior refusals
-- magic and force allowed, no death or permanent damage --
