[open] maybe it was me

WESSEX

Electricity.

Not the cold, hard, white of Zariah’s electricity, but the warm, blue and yellow crackling smell of her Lady. It sends her mind to the shrines, to what happens there, before the orbs. There is Trust. Nourishment. Feeding at their mother’s proverbial bosom. This is an object for her.

Going to the door and making sure it’s locked, Wessex comes back to the table and picks up the object and then sits down on the floor, behind some tables, beneath the sightline of whatever windows there may be. Pressing the needle-end into her skin, she pushes the plunger in once more.

No, I’ll be the stone
I’ll be the hunter, a tower that casts the shade
I lie awake and watch it all