WESSEX
Whether or not Bertha cares for the Banshee, the Banshee seems to want her. Perhaps it’s lonely, tired of asking for friends in Banshee-language and getting nothing but turned shoulders in return. The old hag is at least recognizeable - almost skeletal, wrapped in raggedy clothes, wandering, occasionally aggressive - it all fits. And so the Banshee comes for her, drifting after the retreating figure. Gods, Wessex thinks briefly about letting it have her. Frozen, eyes narrowed, her gaze flickers between the ghostly monster and the hateful human. But there are people watching, and the General can’t be seen doing something like that. So she steps in, facing the banshee with her back to most of the market. As she transforms into her Gorgon form, the demigod keeps her eyes on the Banshee until the shift is complete - and then it freezes, turned to stone, the wails suddenly cut off.
Shifting back, Wessex sighs and approaches to teleport it elsewhere - probably to the Greatwood’s door, so that when it turns back, they can deal with it instead.
{Fin}
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
