The ruins told the story that Weaver had been chasing since she got here. What had been happening here? What had happened here, before the portals opened? She got pieces of it, whispered in corners, through tears from dark nights, from loose lips tainted with liquor. She understood that nothing good had happened here, not really. The world had gotten bigger, yes, but that wasn’t always a good thing. The gods had been silent in Halo, life had not been peaceful but it was routine (Halo was never peaceful), and the dangers were known. Now though? Now she walked through the ruins looking at the destruction, hand outstretched, fingers brushing against the cracked stone as if she could divine the specific through touch alone.
She was wearing clothes purchased in the market here, the fabric lighter than she was used to, but still she wore full sleeves and pants, tucked into new black boots that lacked the fur lining of her usual ones. The sun was not her friend, though it didn’t burn her like it burned an Ascended. No, it merely burned her as it burned all humans, particularly ones who had never been this far south in such brutal sun. Her scythe stretches across her back, the double-edged blade gleaming in the dying sunlight. It is a better time to be out, with the sun beginning to drop below the horizon, than in the middle of the day with the heat trying to roast you like a piece of meat.
Eventually she spots a lone basket sitting atop a small wall, and she almost laughs aloud at the sight. She’d learned the myth of catching the sun as Grounders knew it, and really just learned it because she’d only known a fairy version of it from her mother long ago and child’s memory is not the most reliable. She wonders if that’s what this basket is doing sitting there, waiting for the sun. It takes her only another heartbeat to find the man that must have placed it there. He is hiding behind a wall, covered from head to toe in clothing, and at this she does laugh a little. “You seem to hate the sun more than I do,” she says, holding her long-sleeve covered arms out. She assumes he's probably an ascended, but maybe he's just really damn pale. It's possible.
She was pretty sure he was a man, anyway. It was vaguely hard to tell with all that clothing but the shape of him seemed to suggest a man. Probably. He was lanky and short, but he lacked the curves she would have expected from a female. Though maybe they were just buried in the fabric that covered him, but he didn’t seem to necessarily be wearing layers. “Catching the sun?” she asks, pulling out her attempt at basket making from her pack and wiggling it around slightly. It’s a pathetic looking basket, really, but it does the job. “Would your basket care for company?”
She was wearing clothes purchased in the market here, the fabric lighter than she was used to, but still she wore full sleeves and pants, tucked into new black boots that lacked the fur lining of her usual ones. The sun was not her friend, though it didn’t burn her like it burned an Ascended. No, it merely burned her as it burned all humans, particularly ones who had never been this far south in such brutal sun. Her scythe stretches across her back, the double-edged blade gleaming in the dying sunlight. It is a better time to be out, with the sun beginning to drop below the horizon, than in the middle of the day with the heat trying to roast you like a piece of meat.
Eventually she spots a lone basket sitting atop a small wall, and she almost laughs aloud at the sight. She’d learned the myth of catching the sun as Grounders knew it, and really just learned it because she’d only known a fairy version of it from her mother long ago and child’s memory is not the most reliable. She wonders if that’s what this basket is doing sitting there, waiting for the sun. It takes her only another heartbeat to find the man that must have placed it there. He is hiding behind a wall, covered from head to toe in clothing, and at this she does laugh a little. “You seem to hate the sun more than I do,” she says, holding her long-sleeve covered arms out. She assumes he's probably an ascended, but maybe he's just really damn pale. It's possible.
She was pretty sure he was a man, anyway. It was vaguely hard to tell with all that clothing but the shape of him seemed to suggest a man. Probably. He was lanky and short, but he lacked the curves she would have expected from a female. Though maybe they were just buried in the fabric that covered him, but he didn’t seem to necessarily be wearing layers. “Catching the sun?” she asks, pulling out her attempt at basket making from her pack and wiggling it around slightly. It’s a pathetic looking basket, really, but it does the job. “Would your basket care for company?”
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
Quote by Charles Dickens
