death only knocks once

Wessex clicks her tongue in a mock chiding sound. Tsk, tsk! “Should have knocked first.” she says, with a little shake of her head. “I’d have made tea.” The Accepted, the Abandoned, the Attuned - they can have the world above - the sunlight and everything the light touches. They can have the scorching summers and dying plants and the desert, the rocky wasteland and the mutant creatures. They can have the heroic deeds of the day and the squabbles of mortals. Leave her the moonlight, the darkness, the hidden tunnels and the secret sins of the night, the velvet caress of dark cloaks and moving chess pieces. What is done in the day can be undone at night. This is the world of the real power-players and back-alley deals. Wessex takes a step into the small pool of light, revealing that she is far more than a disembodied head. Blue eyed gaze looks down at the young Sarya as her smirk slowly shifts into something half-motherly. She reaches out to brush away a stray lock of the girl’s hair back behind her ear,  revealing a worn forearm guard and the barest hint of muscular arms. It is a gentle movement for such strength. The chill of the Underground doesn’t affect her, but the cloak is awfully useful in the dark (and Wessex was on her way out). She wears little but her usual leather and cloth ensemble underneath, nothing quite as civilized as what the Outlander wears. “What are you looking for, my dear, besides solitude?” she asks quietly. And what makes you think you’ll find it down here? WESSEX She whispered back, I am the storm