Nothing practical brings her here today. There is nothing to collect here, nothing they can take home, nothing they can eat. At least, nothing tangible anyway, but not all things worth collecting were tangible. Knowledge was power as well, gossip was worth a hot meal and secrets were worth their weight in gold. She only knew of the spire through whispers and mutters, through eavesdropped conversations at the bar. Bars are great places for gossip. Pretend to be drunk, pretend to be an asshole, and people more or less ignore you. They assume you aren’t worth the pot you piss in and ah, look at that, secrets. She’s not a fool, but she knows how to play one.
What a strange thing, she thinks, coming up to the obsidian tower that had been the center of the Grounders lives, if she understood the story correctly, for quite some time. There’d been snippets of stories of blood and loss, of war and rage, of secrets and stories. The snippets were not enough to piece together the price paid to open the Spire, to begin to open the world again. She ought to be thankful for those that spilled their blood here, she supposes, of her life might have forever consisted of Halo and nothing more. As of yet though, she still doesn’t know if a larger world is good or bad. Halo had enough dangers. Did she really need more?
Yet in two days she’d gathered more resources than Halo could provide in a year. There was possibility out here, and her bones sang with it. Halo was home, but even that was shifting and changing, an outsider and an Outlander sitting at the helm pretending to be King (perhaps he would earn the title in her head one day, but she didn’t answer to a King she didn’t trust).
Weaver circles the Spire like a predator, not afraid, but simply appraising. There is a staircase leading up and down, but she doesn’t enter. She isn’t here to die, simply to see, to examine, to put pictures to the pieces of the stories she has gathered. There’s no real purpose to her exploration, it is merely that, exploration. Occasionally she’s entitled to spend a few minutes living and not merely surviving, after all.
Sunjata
What a strange thing, she thinks, coming up to the obsidian tower that had been the center of the Grounders lives, if she understood the story correctly, for quite some time. There’d been snippets of stories of blood and loss, of war and rage, of secrets and stories. The snippets were not enough to piece together the price paid to open the Spire, to begin to open the world again. She ought to be thankful for those that spilled their blood here, she supposes, of her life might have forever consisted of Halo and nothing more. As of yet though, she still doesn’t know if a larger world is good or bad. Halo had enough dangers. Did she really need more?
Yet in two days she’d gathered more resources than Halo could provide in a year. There was possibility out here, and her bones sang with it. Halo was home, but even that was shifting and changing, an outsider and an Outlander sitting at the helm pretending to be King (perhaps he would earn the title in her head one day, but she didn’t answer to a King she didn’t trust).
Weaver circles the Spire like a predator, not afraid, but simply appraising. There is a staircase leading up and down, but she doesn’t enter. She isn’t here to die, simply to see, to examine, to put pictures to the pieces of the stories she has gathered. There’s no real purpose to her exploration, it is merely that, exploration. Occasionally she’s entitled to spend a few minutes living and not merely surviving, after all.
Sunjata
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
Quote by Charles Dickens
