dont know where the lights are taking us
but something in the night is dangerous
but something in the night is dangerous
Call it tension.
Call it frustration.
Call it whatever the fuck you want to call it, but Wessex needs to de-stress.
If she were inclined to have muscle knots, she would say that there’s no wonder people in high stress situations often have personal masseuses, or take wildly extravagant vacations. Neither of these luxuries are options for a Hallowed Grounds-bound (only of her own promises and natural barriers - let them rage) woman who doesn’t have the neural system responsible for such physical pain. Her body may feel fully functional and at the top of its game thanks to all the Deepfrost darkness, but her mind needs to get rid of all that toxic waste.
But this age-old ritual of parrying, striking, and letting her mind shut up while her body does the talking is home. It feels like coming home, even when she’s living in a house bigger than four of her little shacks put together.
Her bowstring is waxed and arrows are fletched. Sword blade whetted and strengthened. A ring of torches put out, to invite any non-Ascended into the wintry night, if they were brave enough to face the cold wind and flickering shadows. She’s not the Queen right now, she’s the Wraith, and this another night she won’t can't let go to waste.
Call it frustration.
Call it whatever the fuck you want to call it, but Wessex needs to de-stress.
If she were inclined to have muscle knots, she would say that there’s no wonder people in high stress situations often have personal masseuses, or take wildly extravagant vacations. Neither of these luxuries are options for a Hallowed Grounds-bound (only of her own promises and natural barriers - let them rage) woman who doesn’t have the neural system responsible for such physical pain. Her body may feel fully functional and at the top of its game thanks to all the Deepfrost darkness, but her mind needs to get rid of all that toxic waste.
But this age-old ritual of parrying, striking, and letting her mind shut up while her body does the talking is home. It feels like coming home, even when she’s living in a house bigger than four of her little shacks put together.
Her bowstring is waxed and arrows are fletched. Sword blade whetted and strengthened. A ring of torches put out, to invite any non-Ascended into the wintry night, if they were brave enough to face the cold wind and flickering shadows. She’s not the Queen right now, she’s the Wraith, and this another night she
