Any other night, she might have engaged the crow-shifter and taunted him back, or, don’t know, maybe have tried to shoot him with an arrow. Fun stuff like that.
Not tonight.
Jorseval does, however, successfully get her attention and elicits a muttered “Fuck off…” towards the already departed bird before returning to her brooding. Wessex loses herself in the darkness, letting her eyes unfocus and her ears shut. Images run through her head; happy mornings, evenings of despair, little moments that no one else might find significant… but there are fewer now than there were last year. She sighs. Her body may virtually live forever, but she will eventually forget the specifics: the feeling of her mother’s hugs, her sister’s laugh… the pain when they died.
She will be numb. The New Gods took death from her, and with it, took that which made her most alive. Wessex is nothing more than an intelligent machine now.
So. Maybe it’s a good thing they’re dead.
By the time she returns to the real world, there’s quite a bit of commotion from the gathered Outlanders. She scowls. The least they could do is be respectful. Lips curl up over her fangs as she turns towards the group. All are welcome. All are welcome. All are welcome. All are welcome...
Ah, fuck it.
Wessex quickly stalks towards the bonfire and grabs two cups of alcohol, tossing their contents on the flames, causing them to whoosh briefly upwards in front of her. The strangers may invade their land, build over what should be forgotten, and eat what precious livestock and food they have left, but Wessex would be damned if the Outlanders would take their festivals, too. Even now, they seem to overrun this important place. And this is one native who’s had enough. "If you aren't here to remember the dead, leave."
WESSEX
She whispered back, I am the storm
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