some lives read like poetry, others like cacophany

WESSEX

There’s bitterness in both women, then, the Wraith’s for the assumptions heaved on her, for the silence and the looks and the way Jigano’s weaved his tale to turn her in to the killer he needs her to be. Only Wessex’s can’t be swallowed, it lives in the pores of her skin, in the machination of her mind given a lack of bile and other physical side effects of such thoughts. A private mantle of injustice, covered by a careful mask that screams I don’t give a fuck! to anyone and everyone walking on by.

There’s some solace, of course - in her divinity and strength - which is what she’s trying to research now. But alas, the Grounders don’t seem to have any public records of Gods ever having children, or of anyone being lifted up to more-than-mortal heights. She can see why, if that kind of power had been what The Voice had come from, they don’t want any others to get the same idea unless they prove themselves ever so loyal. She’s beginning to wonder where else she may need to look when the faint sound of footsteps coming up behind her makes her pause.

The person comes close and then pauses, and in that pauses the warrior decides the person isn’t a threat. If they had been out for her, they probably wouldn’t have hesitated to strike. She moves on, one ear cocked to the movements of the other and one eye on the titles. When the person finally speaks, Wessex pauses before turning around. It - this - was bound to happen sooner or later and though she has no misguided hopes that they can salvage their relationship (she’s decided to work from a place where all her relationships with non-Ascended are gone), she desperately wants to try.

“Anything that mentions demi-gods. Or a list of magic that’s been documented in people - both common and uncommon.” Turning fully around now, she responds quietly. “You? Didn’t think many people would be here this late.”

No, I’ll be the stone
I’ll be the hunter, a tower that casts the shade
I lie awake and watch it all