for there are many ways to kill a man they say

All that glitters and sparkles, tipped with gold or silver, imbedded with jewels and all that would draw a leprechaun’s eye – all of it lies before her, scattered across a swathe of wet sand and slowly being dragged back into the sea that first spit it up.

She meanders around the items, head held low to the ground to examine the fine objects, selecting a couple of particularly lovely and unusual trinkets to give to Tiamat later on (nothing of high value, no, her Lady is more the ‘cute’ type, the natural beauty, the collector of sea-glass and sea-shells). Hoof prints remain untouched by the tide further up the beach, but anyone who was here before Wessex is long gone now. She eventually reaches the end of the treasure and wrinkles her nose; what use are the shiny baubles to her? What, did they think only pretty-pretty-princesses lived here? What about the warriors, the women (and men) who bleed for their lands?

Several choice words tumble softly from her mouth as Wessex decides to move on, for there is nothing for her here. Whilst still muttering to herself, she passes a medium-sized rock with a large ivory ring on it. Paying the plain thing no mind, she continues to complain, grumbling, “What does a girl have to do to find a fucking helmet or face mask around here?” It’s a legit question. Apparently, it’s a legit command to, because out of the corner of her eye she spots movement, and whips her head around to find a bone face mask practically vibrating as it wobbles on the rock. Huh. Well that wasn’t there before. Eyes narrow in suspicious as she snorts at it, tapping the edge with one of her hooves.

Nothing. Okaaaaaay.

She can’t really haul this thing all the way back to the Basin (she could – she just doesn’t want to), and she could try to put it on herself, but that is most likely an exercise in futility. So Wessex just stares at it like an idiot, until she begins talking to herself again. “I’d be so fucking badass with that on my face. All bones and –“ but before she can finish that thought, the mask shrinks again, returning to its original, circular shape.

OH! It takes a moment, but when Wessex realizes what is triggering the change, she laughs aloud, “What are the odds?” And then quickly turns to recount the few words she’s used in its presence. The only one in common is ‘face’ so she whispers it to the ivory ring, and then promptly watches the magical object expand to size. Saying it again, it shrinks, and she dips her crown of horns to pick it up and place it securely around the base of one of her middle horns. Looks like Tia isn’t the only one coming away from here with something that seems to be made just for her. Wessex is about to be one of the fiercest creatures out on the battlefield, and the thought is enough to make her practically quiver in non-sexual excitement.

I am Iron and I Forge Myself