WESSEX
She doesn’t sigh so much as look at Melita with something akin to pity mixed with resignation. If the girl wanted to go down that route, Wessex sure as hell wasn’t going to stop her. She is her own woman, is big enough to make her own decisions. And who knows, maybe her good nature would be in her favor - Wessex is sure that her personal tendency towards bitterness and cynicism were never attractive qualities in the Old God’s eyes. So she found one who embraced her dark side, instead. All of her. Gave her gifts she’d begged for from the Gods and yet was always found wanting. So to say she’s prejudiced against Safrin is, well, a bit of an understatement.
Instead, she just shrugs and keeps herself holed up in the safety of the shade of the trees by the bank. Wessex is quite relaxed, actually. Or is it tiredness masquerading as relaxation?
“Fair enough. Took me thirty some-odd years before I gave up praying to them.” Looking down at the roots and dirt by her feet, she digs her toe into it a little bit and then towards her mentee. “So how’s this story end?” she asks, low and knowing, but refusing to call the little firecracker out completely. The ’for you’ is heavily implied - in her eyes, her crossed arms, the way she sticks around.
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
