She might actually roll around in the grass just for the hell of it. Why? Because she has never had the luxury before, having spent the entire twenty-six years of her life trapped in Halo up until now. It’s not as if she’d ever rolled around in the snow in Halo even. Anyone who values all their extremities skips that part of growing up when you live in a Tundra. But she definitely finds that she likes grass, not for the grass itself but for the novelty of it. Truthfully the grass itself is just itchy. It catches in the wind and scratches at her bare neck or tickles the underside of her legs and she wouldn’t mind ripping it all out from around her, but the stuff is useful, and so here she is.
At this point she’s got some semblance of a weave happening, but she’s failing rather epically at turning up the corners and getting it to stay. There had to be a way to weave up and around to force it, but arts and crafts time was not Weaver’s forte. She hears footfalls and she pauses, hand gravitating toward one of the many knives along her belt, but the voice that follows is kind enough. Weaver doesn’t look up right away, returning to work on the stubborn corner. ”Attempting to make a basket,” she mutters, though it’s clear the annoyed muttering is at the grass and not at the stranger.
Finding a point that seems like a good stopping place, Weaver finally looks up. “It’s not going great, as you can probably see. Got any ideas?.” she says, taking in the woman who has come to join her. She looks familiar, and Weaver pauses a moment trying to place her. ”Have I seen you in Halo?” she finally asks, because she feels like she has seen those eyes before in passing. You don’t forget such crimson eyes.
At this point she’s got some semblance of a weave happening, but she’s failing rather epically at turning up the corners and getting it to stay. There had to be a way to weave up and around to force it, but arts and crafts time was not Weaver’s forte. She hears footfalls and she pauses, hand gravitating toward one of the many knives along her belt, but the voice that follows is kind enough. Weaver doesn’t look up right away, returning to work on the stubborn corner. ”Attempting to make a basket,” she mutters, though it’s clear the annoyed muttering is at the grass and not at the stranger.
Finding a point that seems like a good stopping place, Weaver finally looks up. “It’s not going great, as you can probably see. Got any ideas?.” she says, taking in the woman who has come to join her. She looks familiar, and Weaver pauses a moment trying to place her. ”Have I seen you in Halo?” she finally asks, because she feels like she has seen those eyes before in passing. You don’t forget such crimson eyes.
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
Quote by Charles Dickens
