Wessex
some turn to dust or to gold, but you will remember me
Everything seems to stop as the girl tumbles to the hard, cold ground. Wessex freezes, waiting for what she’s sure will be a surprised wail that will call adults or guards or anyone else in the vicinity. And yet - it doesn’t come. Peals of laughter shoot out of the child instead, and a lolling grin and curious head tilts precede her cautious steps forward, making tiny little paw prints in the slushy mess they’ve made. Who is she to deny that kind of request? Fox!Wessex dutifully permits a few feathers to be thrust into her thick scruff of fur before she twists away - not in an unkind way, but in the manner of an animal that is tired of holding still. Maybe it’s the fox’s inherent nature, a nervous spark suddenly has her feeling like she’s let her guard down and lingered here for too long.
