My Precious

The sword is a shiny thing, and much like a magpie, or a starving child standing before a pile of sweets, Wessex is drawn to it. Any warrior worth their salt (and bread, butter, and bacon) would be. The woman who wields it is of significantly less interest… not nearly as striking as the last Outlander woman she came in contact with. What is intriguing is that this one seems to be a creature of habit. Wessex has stalked her for a couple of nights now, flitting from shadow to shadow, rooftop to rooftop, taking her sweet time. This strike won’t be ruined with surprised Ascendants popping out of dark corner unexpectedly. She’s learned her lesson. As Roana passes beneath her, the tawny woman drops from the top of a decrepit house and lands quietly on light feet. Purposefully behind her target, Wessex applies her preternatural speed in hopes of getting her knife out and into the small of the woman's back before she can turn around. Surprise. Guess it won’t be a quiet night after all. WESSEX She whispered back, I am the storm