I've embraced the torch passed to me
owned what I've been called to be
In the shadow of the soon-to-be new Barracks, Wessex sorts through the weapons collected last year by Aamu (he, too, she wonders about, but has accepted that the oldest of them was perhaps unsuited for their time) in the wake of the fire. Taking each piece in hand, she runs practiced and knowing fingers over the blades, inspecting them for rust and testing their sharpness. Then over the hilts and holding bits, noting what needs to be repaired and re-leathered or re-forged. It’s a time-consuming task, but one the General can easily get herself lost in.
Two or three piles being to emerge and a soft, nameless tune lilts around her immeidate vicinity. The Wraith hums to herself, mostly here in the present, but perhaps also somewhere in the past. Maybe with her mother. Maybe with Aamu. Maybe with the ones who trained her, who would probably turn their blades on her now.
Two or three piles being to emerge and a soft, nameless tune lilts around her immeidate vicinity. The Wraith hums to herself, mostly here in the present, but perhaps also somewhere in the past. Maybe with her mother. Maybe with Aamu. Maybe with the ones who trained her, who would probably turn their blades on her now.
full tilt,
hello destiny
WESSEX
