Life had been quiet and mundane and exhausting, and then the portals opened. The problem is, she still can’t decide if this is a good or bad thing. Fresh meat is both good and bad, depending on the breed, and she’s mostly been avoiding them all and wondering if her and Korbin shouldn’t get the hell out while the getting was good. But go where? The portals worked, but barely, sending her to a land of the Fae or a place even more overrun with Outlanders that she wasn’t sure it was better. Warmer, but they were used to the bitter cold.
Besides, this was home. Weaver couldn’t quite imagine leaving her little corner of hell or the place that had killed her once and tried to kill her again and again. Mort didn’t want her any more than any of the other gods, old or new, it seemed, because she seemed to be made up of nine lives. She couldn’t imagine leaving behind the hole of a bar that she frequented or the fact that she knew every face and had slept with quite a number of them. It was adorable how some of them blushed and blubbered around her.
The sun today, like so many days, is blinding. The world is white from the reflection rather than a snow storm, but regardless of the reason it makes hunting rather a non-option and so Weaver finds herself in her favorite little tavern. She doesn’t order here, just sits at the bar in the stool that is almost always empty because everyone who lives here knows it’s her stool and the bartender slaps what passes for liquor around here down in front of her and maybe a hunk of dried meat if she’s lucky.
The place is a hole in the wall, the sort of place an Outlander isn’t likely to come and like them in general, she wonders if this is good or bad. It might be good to get out and meet someone of them, or make her way into real civilization and see if she can find out what important shit has been going down but instead she ends up here. If there are Outlanders that make it here, they are likely to be the sort that she would like given their taste in places to visit. Most likely, she’d pass this day like so many others, making small talk with the bartender and doing absolutely nothing waiting for the world to stop trying to burn her retinas.
Besides, this was home. Weaver couldn’t quite imagine leaving her little corner of hell or the place that had killed her once and tried to kill her again and again. Mort didn’t want her any more than any of the other gods, old or new, it seemed, because she seemed to be made up of nine lives. She couldn’t imagine leaving behind the hole of a bar that she frequented or the fact that she knew every face and had slept with quite a number of them. It was adorable how some of them blushed and blubbered around her.
The sun today, like so many days, is blinding. The world is white from the reflection rather than a snow storm, but regardless of the reason it makes hunting rather a non-option and so Weaver finds herself in her favorite little tavern. She doesn’t order here, just sits at the bar in the stool that is almost always empty because everyone who lives here knows it’s her stool and the bartender slaps what passes for liquor around here down in front of her and maybe a hunk of dried meat if she’s lucky.
The place is a hole in the wall, the sort of place an Outlander isn’t likely to come and like them in general, she wonders if this is good or bad. It might be good to get out and meet someone of them, or make her way into real civilization and see if she can find out what important shit has been going down but instead she ends up here. If there are Outlanders that make it here, they are likely to be the sort that she would like given their taste in places to visit. Most likely, she’d pass this day like so many others, making small talk with the bartender and doing absolutely nothing waiting for the world to stop trying to burn her retinas.
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
Quote by Charles Dickens
