WESSEX
To any one else, the water might still be unbearably cold (who knows how much it’s warmed up), but to Wessex, it will always be a pleasant room temperature. Her pale, lean body slices through the water with ease, arms arcing up and over her head, the familiar (but now useless) motions of turning her head to the side to breathe maintained, because as she’d realized about twenty minutes ago, she hasn’t figured out any other way to swim. There’s the underwater breaststroke, but that feels very… fish-like. And she’s already struggling with the half-god/half-human thing. Let’s not add half-animal to that as well. The repetitive movements and the inanity of swimming from one edge of the Oasis to the other helps clear her mind. The moon in the sky keeps her company, silently watching the naked woman like some mute sentinel or a herald of her Lady. Safrin may own the stars and the mysterious cosmos, Wessex thinks, but she imagines the Voice lays claim to the mortal night and its moon.
Back and forth. Back and forth. Constant and determined and unrelenting, until her mind calms somewhat and she gets bored. Eventually, her feet find the slick and muddy bottom, toes squishing in the mud and trampling water greens, but still finding enough purchase not to stumble. She climbs out of the water with the light at her back, far less ample and sexy than the Venus de Milo - but pale and natural and dripping all the same. Unabashed - not that she thinks anyone would be out this time of night - she runs her hands over her face to remove the water, then through her hair, which spikes beneath her careless ministrations.
Reaching for clothes, the Wraith sighs softly.
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
