WESSEX
Azrael may be late but they are not the last; minutes behind the child is yet another bauble-maker. The Notice Board was one of the first places she checked as she exited the Temple, though why they were making baubles and what exactly a Firling is (alas, these things are a bit out of order), she has yet to discover. But the Artists’ Sanctuary is cozy and bright and she had no doubt it would have a least a couple of attendees. Cracking the door with a surprisingly gentle nudge, Wessex does her best to slide in without drawing any attention to herself. Another tentative touch pushes the door shut behind her as she pauses against it and takes a moment to take in the scene before her; unfamiliar faces shine in the light and creative juices seem to flow easily. It’s never been her scene, though she is always ready to admit when something is beautiful. The Wraith’s hands are made for butchering, for violence, the eternal calluses on her hands rough and clumsy as she tentatively clenches her fists.
Suddenly stepping forward, the demigod takes a seat at the foot of the table and takes a moment to look studiously over the offered crafting tools and finds herself (to no one’s surprise) indecisive about what to make. Whittling can be done, but of what? A spear? That’s hardly an appropriate Bauble.
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
