Go
deep throat
a cactus
There was no way to know unless she tested it; Wessex peers into the darkness after the rock hits her, untying her pouch and reaching for the monster repellant - which she’d also never really tested, thanks to the idiots of last LongNight. But as she moves to spray into the darkness, limbs still hidden by the cloak, Ronin comes into view - his head of antlers as bright a sigil as the starwhale light, and Wessex hurls a thousand curses at him in her head.
Son of a pock-riddled, seeping star-cunt - Now? - of all the times and places?
Fine. She can be patient. There are more days and nights still left.
Instead, she withdraws as quietly as she can and makes as if she’s tracked him here, or teleported, or used some other tech.
“There you are,” she says quietly, stepping back into old footprints and into the edges of the dual lights, throwing back the head of the cloak to reveal herself. Looking from his glowing rack to his drawn face, and then to the shrine, a lip curls back in obvious hatred for what the shrine signifies.
Son of a pock-riddled, seeping star-cunt - Now? - of all the times and places?
Fine. She can be patient. There are more days and nights still left.
Instead, she withdraws as quietly as she can and makes as if she’s tracked him here, or teleported, or used some other tech.
“There you are,” she says quietly, stepping back into old footprints and into the edges of the dual lights, throwing back the head of the cloak to reveal herself. Looking from his glowing rack to his drawn face, and then to the shrine, a lip curls back in obvious hatred for what the shrine signifies.
