As it turns out, it’s not a Grounder who looked up. Maybe Halovians are smarter, or maybe the girl just gave herself away with the rhythmic tapping of her heel against the stone (a sound a hunter like Weaver is not going to miss). Both seem highly possible, though she’s met Grounders that she suspected would look up and others she is very sure would not. The difference, so far in her experience, seems to have something to do with being a natural and an outlander. Her experience is minimal and definitely shouldn’t be taken as fact, though, but it does make some amount of sense. Naturals would know a whole lot more about Caido, would simply be used to the dangers of this place in a way outlanders were less likely to be. Live here long enough and you figure it out, but the outlanders she stumbled across haven’t really been here all that long.
The woman eyes her for a moment, and Weaver just waits, eye cast upward as if accepting whatever challenge is there. Then the woman responds, and Weaver lets out a pleased and amused laugh, because that is very much a response Weaver would give. Maybe they could be friends (or maybe they would rip each other apart, we’ll see). “Oh, I do like to think I count as something good,” she says with a grin and a bit of a sultry voice. Weaver’s type is generally male, but she can appreciate a pretty woman and a bit of flirting, certainly. On occasion a bit more, usually when there’s booze involved.
“Exploring, which I suppose is vaguely the same without the pen and paper.” she says, looking around the ruins of the Grounds. She cannot help but wonder what this place would have been like before the war, before the bubble. What might her life had been like if those things did not happen? It is a story she imagines sometimes, though little good it does her. Her life is what it is, and she does not mourn it, but sometimes she does like to dream. “I grew up knowing the stories of the Hallowed Grounds, the war and the bubble that trapped us all, but I never really imagined I would actually see it.”
The woman eyes her for a moment, and Weaver just waits, eye cast upward as if accepting whatever challenge is there. Then the woman responds, and Weaver lets out a pleased and amused laugh, because that is very much a response Weaver would give. Maybe they could be friends (or maybe they would rip each other apart, we’ll see). “Oh, I do like to think I count as something good,” she says with a grin and a bit of a sultry voice. Weaver’s type is generally male, but she can appreciate a pretty woman and a bit of flirting, certainly. On occasion a bit more, usually when there’s booze involved.
“Exploring, which I suppose is vaguely the same without the pen and paper.” she says, looking around the ruins of the Grounds. She cannot help but wonder what this place would have been like before the war, before the bubble. What might her life had been like if those things did not happen? It is a story she imagines sometimes, though little good it does her. Her life is what it is, and she does not mourn it, but sometimes she does like to dream. “I grew up knowing the stories of the Hallowed Grounds, the war and the bubble that trapped us all, but I never really imagined I would actually see it.”
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
Quote by Charles Dickens
