[SWE] The Festival of Lights

Wessex’s emotions are funny things now; rage is still easily accessible, still lives deep in her flame-licked belly, ready to burst forth with both senseless abandon and cold calculation. Lust only tickles her now and then - at the sight of a long-legged girl or a particularly roughshod guy, two extremes who would have kept her busy for hours on end. Hunger and Thirst are a memory, Weariness present when the sun rises, and Love - well, love was never a true companion anyway. Wessex is loyal. Wessex has allies. Wessex is logical, and there is precious little room for affection. However. If the Ascendant woman had a big ‘ol organic heart, it would be smiling for Rory. It would rejoice in his indignation, sing to see him stand up to the Outlanders, and this night would plant a seed between them. As it is, well, she isn’t mad because her lantern wasn’t chosen. It never is - and probably never will be - as she has forsaken the Old Gods and isn’t the arts and crafts type. Her sister is dead; no  point in reliving what has been lost. But for others, this is a poignant, hopeful affair. The Outlanders don’t deserve it. Wessex follows Rory, drawing knives from hiding places as she slinks along, fluidly slipping through the small gaps between the gathered. The leatherworker doesn’t need protecting, but the wolf looks like it’s about to rip someone’s throat out, and she’d rather it not be her fellow Natural. She shoves someone aside and takes up a spot immediately to his right, still vaguely angry, but more observant and collected than before. They're a team, of sorts. “Leave.” she hisses to the two Outlanders who have their hackles literally and proverbially raised. “They won’t follow you.” WESSEX She whispered back, I am the storm