a grave so familiar I could call it my own

WESSEX

the wraith

she tied you to her kitchen chair
she broke your throne and she cut your hair

“Thanks. Let me know. Might even send the younger Ascended to Torchline, depending on what this… monster endeavor entails.” Here, after a moment, she sinks her face into her hands and then slides them down, to rest in front of her mouth. There’s clearly a lot in her head, a lot going on that she has to balance, keep those plates spinning lest one of them fall - and then they all fall.

Fail. Fall. It’s all the same, isn’t it?

The topic hangs in the air, the Flood’s to take or reject, to end the conversation and get back to his vacation, or sit and chat some more.

and from your lips she drew
the hallelujah