My Precious

At least this one doesn’t reek of fear. Wessex licks her lips a little, an action that is just as predatory regardless of being seen or unseen. It’s the feeling of it, the smooth, sharp edges under her tongue that sends a shiver of power up and down her spine. She chuckles, maintaining a pointed connection with the Outlander. Wessex could care less that this women has children - how many of her own kind have died in the midst of adolescence. Honestly, killing her might be what’s best for the Naturals, might be a blessing in disguise for her unfortunate whelps. Newsflash, lady, having unprotected sex and reproducing doesn’t give you some special status. She hisses back, “What kind of person forgets to ask if they can live on someone else’s land?” Greedy, self-absorbed, inflated folk, that’s who. Time to take one down a notch. “Your sword,” Wessex murmurs, nudging the tip of the sheath with a toe. “Give it.” Roana might feel a chilly breath on her neck, or the slight movement of her hair. Wessex is ready for a fight, ready to wrap a hand in the woman’s locks and yank her oh-so-brave head to one side. The plan is still forming, but the Ascended is currently torn between drinking from her and just snapping her neck. Call it population control - this bubble is only so big, and there aren’t enough resources for everyone. Wessex is a lion in human form, she’d just be doing her job by culling the herd. WESSEX She whispered back, I am the storm