we're all stories unfinished and we die to find some fitting words to write
It’s really the mist that gets her - vaguely creepy and yet totally fitting for a ‘Wraith,’ as she’s heard the nickname go. Flitting from place to place, near-silent footsteps, pretty damn fast; it fits, and it makes her chuckle to think she’s gained a worldwide nickname. Loki is nearly too big to fit on her shoulder now, but crouches anyway, as big as a cat, tail snaking across her shoulders and down to wrap underneath her arm pit.
Wessex stands as still as a statue, not a breath or twitch within her - listening, watching - curious and cautious until she suddenly shifts and tilts her head towards the grey, cloudy sky and screams. Nothing intelligible, mind, just the cross between a barbaric yawp over the hilltops of the Wilds and the uninhibited despair of a woman asking the dead what the fuck to do about the incoming war.
Wessex stands as still as a statue, not a breath or twitch within her - listening, watching - curious and cautious until she suddenly shifts and tilts her head towards the grey, cloudy sky and screams. Nothing intelligible, mind, just the cross between a barbaric yawp over the hilltops of the Wilds and the uninhibited despair of a woman asking the dead what the fuck to do about the incoming war.
WESSEX
