sailing from another world

If Are wants to think of Wessex as the proverbial Big Bad Wolf, that’s on him. Sure, she’s given him a good whack on the head, but has she done anything to lead him down the scary, scary path? He’s the one who showed up for this adventure. She’s just the facilitator. So there must be something within the giant cobbler that says to him, ‘Yes, I want this encounter. I want to put myself in danger. I want to push the limits of my comfort and look death in the eye - again.’ Why? Because it makes you feel alive, thats why. Because that adrenaline rush is fucking addicting. And for some, the possibility of ending it all is worth it. For others, it never seems like a real threat until boom - they’re dead. Wessex was of the latter ilk. She’s died. She knows. The water still rushes loudly on her left, so the Ascended nods and gestures as if it’s self-explanatory. It’s not time (it might never be) to give away her secrets. “Why? You nervous?” WESSEX She whispered back, I am the storm