Laser beams we're about to awesome all your dreams
Without a filter, without the right frame of mind, there is no disguising Wessex’s feelings. Aggressive and antagonistic, the Wraith has more than a few feelings to let out to a certain star-wrought Goddess.
Carrying a dead rat by the tail - it had the misfortune of looking for food in her shack while she was there - she stalks, naked and remarkably pale, into the Fields at night. Not too close to Safrin’s shrine, mind you, but close enough to see the pillars and smell the flowers from afar. Fuck the Ascended senses, sometimes. Her lips curl against her fangs and she throws the dead rat to the ground, sending a small ripple through the grass. “Fuck you, Safrin,” she hisses into the darkness.
Ah, but the thought seizes her and she lifts her arms to the sky, the picture of Earthly witchery and defiance. “I wish the Blight had taken you,” she screams, “I hope the stars fall! And die! And the skies abandon you!” Wanting to throw something, to hurl it upward in the hopes that it might, just might touch the Goddess, she picks up the rat and hurls it upward, putting all her demigodly strength behind it. It goes - somewhere. Not so much up, but up and out, but Wessex only has eyes for the stars.
“Here’s your godsdamned gift. With love from your faaaaaaavorite Abomination!”
Because that was the crux of it, wasn’t it? If Safrin had just offered to help, had even tried, Wessex wouldn’t be here. The Wraith is a product of the herald’s own fickle natures and she’s going to be the biggest thorn in their side for as long as she can.
Carrying a dead rat by the tail - it had the misfortune of looking for food in her shack while she was there - she stalks, naked and remarkably pale, into the Fields at night. Not too close to Safrin’s shrine, mind you, but close enough to see the pillars and smell the flowers from afar. Fuck the Ascended senses, sometimes. Her lips curl against her fangs and she throws the dead rat to the ground, sending a small ripple through the grass. “Fuck you, Safrin,” she hisses into the darkness.
Ah, but the thought seizes her and she lifts her arms to the sky, the picture of Earthly witchery and defiance. “I wish the Blight had taken you,” she screams, “I hope the stars fall! And die! And the skies abandon you!” Wanting to throw something, to hurl it upward in the hopes that it might, just might touch the Goddess, she picks up the rat and hurls it upward, putting all her demigodly strength behind it. It goes - somewhere. Not so much up, but up and out, but Wessex only has eyes for the stars.
“Here’s your godsdamned gift. With love from your faaaaaaavorite Abomination!”
Because that was the crux of it, wasn’t it? If Safrin had just offered to help, had even tried, Wessex wouldn’t be here. The Wraith is a product of the herald’s own fickle natures and she’s going to be the biggest thorn in their side for as long as she can.
WESSEX
