WESSEX
the wraith
she tied you to her kitchen chair
she broke your throne and she cut your hair
she broke your throne and she cut your hair
With a knowing snort (because it’s always monsters, isn’t it?) Wessex agrees. “Probably.” And as she looks out again, she can picture planted fields and children running and laughing, paddocks of livestock, fat and healthy on all this green, green grass. Her people could flourish here, if only they had the chance. It wouldn’t solve all their problems, but it might be a start, if they could just grow enough food for a couple of years in a row. “Guess there’s another thing on the to-do list. Kill the unknown monster. Move the Grounders out here.” Become Enders. Or whatever the fuck this place would be called.
His poke elicits a reflexive, mostly unwanted grin. Everything he says is correct, of course, but what she dwells on isn’t what affects her, but the rest of them. Herself? She’s safe, unless Osozo or Azrael end up burning her with fire. The others? Not so much. “So what I’m hearing,” the demigod says as she turns towards him, “is that I need to stop feeling sorry for things I have no control over and keep training so I can pummel some Order members when I finally meet them?”
A remarkably self-aware statement, if she does say so herself. And she does.
“Well come on then,” the Wraith gestures to her usual punching bag (an affectionate term, I promise you, dear reader) with a fanged smirk, sinking into a prepared stance. “I’m just gonna imagine an ugly ass Order face on you until you say stop the evisterating.”
Not that either of them know what an Order member looks like.
Well, the Wraith does, but she doesn't know that yet.
His poke elicits a reflexive, mostly unwanted grin. Everything he says is correct, of course, but what she dwells on isn’t what affects her, but the rest of them. Herself? She’s safe, unless Osozo or Azrael end up burning her with fire. The others? Not so much. “So what I’m hearing,” the demigod says as she turns towards him, “is that I need to stop feeling sorry for things I have no control over and keep training so I can pummel some Order members when I finally meet them?”
A remarkably self-aware statement, if she does say so herself. And she does.
“Well come on then,” the Wraith gestures to her usual punching bag (an affectionate term, I promise you, dear reader) with a fanged smirk, sinking into a prepared stance. “I’m just gonna imagine an ugly ass Order face on you until you say stop the evisterating.”
Not that either of them know what an Order member looks like.
Well, the Wraith does, but she doesn't know that yet.
and from your lips she drew
the hallelujah
the hallelujah
