WESSEX
Loki holds her ground, confused about the mixed messages of dominance and matching and no-wings on this aggressive cousin who boops with her tongue. But as no one’s hurt or shedding blood, Wessex refrains from swooping in like a helicopter mom, splitting her focus more evenly with the man on the rocks. “Thank you. Does Ki always… what kind of lizard is she?” The Grounder’s seen a bunch of new things in Torchline things that are vaguely familiar and things that are brand new, but this - both the companion and the cloud wyrms - feel uniquely Torchline. It must be the colors. It seems… fanciful. Delightful. Tropical. “Wessex,” she replies, and ventures to take a seat, staring up at the group of wyrms with studious fascination. Not sure what he means by thieves, but it sticks in her mind, just in case. “No, I’m a Grounder born ‘n bred. I take it you’re from here?”
No, I’ll be the stone
I’ll be the hunter, a tower that casts the shade
I lie awake and watch it all
I’ll be the hunter, a tower that casts the shade
I lie awake and watch it all
