fears, shmears

Oh, her toys! Shiny sword. Retractable metal talon thingies. What should she even call them? High off a persistent sense of feeling like she can take on the world, Wessex sets out, toys in hand, with no sense of agenda other than to use them at some point. Or throw herself recklessly back into danger. Or maybe just go somewhere she’s never truly dared to go before. With Roana’s sword strapped to her back (in place of her bow, which is not so effective in the winter winds), she pads quietly through the ruins, flowing like water over the stones and snow-covered overgrowth. A little song once again pops into her head and she begins to hum a few short bars in repetition as she heads towards the mist-filled gorge and that creepy-ass bridge. You are not like them. No. She’s better. And she will master one of the few things that have given her pause in her thirty-eight years of life: that damn bridge and the seemingly bottomless expanse beneath it. WESSEX She whispered back, I am the storm