WESSEX
It’s an old, old tune that digs itself deep into her ear, something hummed to babies in their cradles and sung whilst drunk or in mourning - or both, often enough. A song her mother sang quietly whilst cooking and her father whilst chopping (perhaps the sole memory of him, the thwack of the axe against the log, timed perfectly to last word in a verse). A song long dormant, until someone (it doesn’t matter who) said a certain phrase, and the words came (mostly) flooding back. The Glade is on a convenient path to the Outskirts, where Wessex had planned to practice with her discus - and as she isn’t expecting anyone to be there, the Wraith is muddling through the song aloud. She isn’t particularly in tune, or perhaps the song is meant to be in a minor key, but her voice carries clearly enough ahead of her. “Wearing scales of the dragon, the…” there’s an obvious space for words she can’t remember, “dragon, Theskyra women roar...”
Her disc flies idly up into the air, straight up and down, as she strolls, catching it neatly every couple of paces.
No, I’ll be the stone
I’ll be the hunter, a tower that casts the shade
I lie awake and watch it all
I’ll be the hunter, a tower that casts the shade
I lie awake and watch it all
