Wessex’s response makes Weaver like her more. She is pleased to have someone admire the weapon rather than just wonder if she used to be a farmer (there were no farmers in Halo). It was too beautiful, too deadly a thing to be just an implement for cutting grass. The edge of the blade was wicked, hungry, and though Weaver did not fight unnecessarily she did fight. Fighting was necessary to survival, and Weaver had grown up knowing nothing else. Sometimes she found herself hungry for a fight, for adventure, for something new.
Weaver doesn’t find Wessex frightening, not in the way of something you run from. She was frightening in the way of something you ought, reasonably, to be wary of. There was power beneath the woman’s skin, there was something deadly in the way she moved or killed luxere and carried it about so easily. Wessex was adventure, she was new, she was the sort of thing Weaver foolishly ran too. Foolishly, perhaps, but she may not have to hunt for a month. Sometimes being a fool was well worth it.
“The market is a good place to start,” she says, gesturing around to the area behind her. Weaver heads in that direction, assuming Wessex is planning to bring the kill along given how she’d grabbed a foot of it, though she’d help if requested (Wessex did not seem like she needed Weaver’s help). They could wander in the direction of Weaver’s house and stop at the interesting spots along the way. “There’s a stall I particularly like.” she adds. She needed a gift for the upcoming festival if she was going to attend and see what it was all about, and she felt as though Wessex might appreciate the brand of weird that was sold here.
Weaver moves through the crowd with the ease of someone who knows a place. This has been all she has known for twenty-six years, and it was not as if they had abundant room to frolic and play. Outside the Citadel was a wasteland, it was a place where you went to kill or be killed and little else. “So tell me, what sort of juicy gossip do you care for? We get vastly little information here in Halo.” It is an invitation to the unasked question, but Weaver appreciated a desire for information. She sought it herself. It was also a warning, a reminder that Halo had basically been under a rock for most of her life and so there wasn’t necessarily much to tell.
Weaver doesn’t find Wessex frightening, not in the way of something you run from. She was frightening in the way of something you ought, reasonably, to be wary of. There was power beneath the woman’s skin, there was something deadly in the way she moved or killed luxere and carried it about so easily. Wessex was adventure, she was new, she was the sort of thing Weaver foolishly ran too. Foolishly, perhaps, but she may not have to hunt for a month. Sometimes being a fool was well worth it.
“The market is a good place to start,” she says, gesturing around to the area behind her. Weaver heads in that direction, assuming Wessex is planning to bring the kill along given how she’d grabbed a foot of it, though she’d help if requested (Wessex did not seem like she needed Weaver’s help). They could wander in the direction of Weaver’s house and stop at the interesting spots along the way. “There’s a stall I particularly like.” she adds. She needed a gift for the upcoming festival if she was going to attend and see what it was all about, and she felt as though Wessex might appreciate the brand of weird that was sold here.
Weaver moves through the crowd with the ease of someone who knows a place. This has been all she has known for twenty-six years, and it was not as if they had abundant room to frolic and play. Outside the Citadel was a wasteland, it was a place where you went to kill or be killed and little else. “So tell me, what sort of juicy gossip do you care for? We get vastly little information here in Halo.” It is an invitation to the unasked question, but Weaver appreciated a desire for information. She sought it herself. It was also a warning, a reminder that Halo had basically been under a rock for most of her life and so there wasn’t necessarily much to tell.
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
Quote by Charles Dickens
