My cathedral is the badlands

WESSEX after all is said and done you're just a carnivore let you in and drink my blood you're nothing but a monster Too much sun; there’s just too much sun in Torchline to make Wessex feel comfortable being there for long. The Wraith hops back to Halo, appearing at the edge of the Sea of Glass in what a Halovian might consider obscenely little clothing. If she were normal, she’d be asking to freeze to death. But Wessex is anything but normal and here, where she’s made some allies (and a singular friend of all things), the demi-god doesn’t might flaunting it a little. It’s kind of her signature thing, that and casual nonchalance about, well, just about everything. The wind that rips across the perpetually frozen water aggressively ruffles her hair and sends her loose garments flapping in her wake. She smiles, looking up at the grey sky and then to the Fangs, where the idea of mage glass and dragons still call. There she lingers, looking up at the white-capped peaks with both awe and longing. In due time. Research first, lest her expedition end up like Amalia’s.