for there are many ways to kill a man they say

Well goddamn - Wessex’s breath catches in her throat as the normally silent (but strong) woman continues to remain speechless. Whatever is going on with the Corporal’s lust has really been kicking it into high gear lately, which perhaps has something to do with her unconscious judgement of Tiamat’s odd disappearing act. That is, perhaps this pedestal of Wessex’s unattainable lady loves is about to have an opening - and the depths of her mind know it, while the rest of her very logical body is playing catch-up.

The horned mare’s presence is not hidden, per-se, but she was not stomping loudly through the Threshold today in a way that would project herself to other wanderers. No, in the time of falling leaves and dying brush, it is best for her to tread lightly and carefully, keep her tail close to herself, and try to avoid collecting unwanted adornments on her various points. One might even dare to say that is -gasp!- attempting to move stealthily. Her pause to consider the mare’s milk-drenched beauty allows a familiar face from the Throat to approach first, a young healer that she is rather ambivalent about, until he begins his platitudes. They’ve met a few times, and while he is kind and eager… those two things paired together tend to occasionally rub Wessex the wrong way. Either be one or the other, but both seem… inexplicably weak to the career soldier.

With the competition on, Wessex continues forward, her mottled coat coming out of the shadows with tattooed leg leading, horned head held high, and a curious, but neutral look on her face. If one were to look behind her, they would see a tufted lion’s tail periodically interrupted by pairs of the very same spikes that sprout from her head - a dangerous mace to some, but a source of pride for the mutant. Her coat ripples with new and old scars, which blend in amongst the dark dapples of her body, orange-yellow eyes darting from Astarot to the mare, and then to their dragon companions, before she opens her mouth.

“Hey Astarot. Nice to see you, again.” Kohl-rimmed eyes turn to peer at the delicate, curvaceous woman, whom she wants to drink up like a cool glass of water on a hot summer’s day. “I’m Wessex,” her deep voice rumbles as she offers a small smile to the stranger. “Corporal of the Basin. Welcome.” Short, perfunctory, and simple until they find out what her particular situation is.

I am Iron and I Forge Myself