Get a meeting together. No big deal, right?
Wessex grumbles at the complexity of it, the sheer stubbornness of her people (a great quality when determined to survive, not so great when trying not to be found) and their tendency towards seclusion. With no leader, no true connections outside of blood, they are fractured, somewhat selfish creatures. Every now and then someone great rises, but they never last very long. And of all the people to want to call an Enclave, Wessex is one of those who has the least amount of pull. A blade for hire often has many enemies.
Nevertheless, she has tried. Contacting the few friendly acquaintances she has and asking them to spread the word, making sure the time and place and subject matter was well known. The Woodland. Two Hours after Sunset. Re: The Newcomers. Come with any information you have. She gave them three days notice - more than enough time for word to spread. She even left a pyramid of stones at the side of various well-traveled paths. The meaning is clear, the rules forbid violence… but Enclaves have been notoriously unsuccessful in the past.
Deep in the dense woods, under the cover of a clouded sky, Wessex builds a fire in a cleared area and watches the smoke trail lazily up towards the canopy. Munching on some dried meat, she sits hunched over, elbows on knees and hair plaited back. Seemingly at ease, she listens to the sounds of the world around her, waiting for the soft crunch of footsteps and the direct padding of animal feet. Anything out of the ordinary.
If anyone shows up it will be a miracle. If she can pull this off without anyone getting hurt (rules are meant to be broken, and often are), she should probably be made a God.
WESSEX
She whispered back, I am the storm
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