”To be fair, good, when it comes to me, probably depends on your definition. I am not good by its traditional sense.” It’s not as if Weaver kids herself into thinking she is good. Really, she believes herself far worse than she really is. She is not good in the straight laced kind of way, by any means. She enjoys booze, occasionally drugs, sex with too many partners, and flirts indiscriminantely and often means nothing by it. She is willing to fight, willing to kill, entirely able to curse like a sailor with the best of them. But at the same time, she is open minded and without many of the same prejudices the other naturals have. She cares fiercely, even if it doesn’t show, and will defend and protect those that cannot defend and protect themselves.
She would never call herself good in the kind, gentle, caring sort of way. She would never call herself good in the way she was good, either, but there was something wonderful buried beneath the layers of protective debauchery.
Nephele speaks like a researcher, and Weaver wonders what she does in the Greatwood. To be honest, she wonders what the Fae do in general. Do they live like the rest of them, except with wings and their smaller size? Or do they live like something else entirely? She knows little of the Fae outside of stories, some of which do not paint the greatest light, though Weaver knows that all stories should not be taken for truth.
”I’m from Halo,” she offers, only realizing now that she doesn’t look like she’s from Halo. She’s getting used to being here. She’d traded for some lighter clothes more suited to the climate, had stored away her heavy black cloak (she feels a little not like herself without it), and had spent enough time here to have some vague sense of the land. ”My name is Weaver, by the way.” she says, realizing she’d never actually bothered to give that bit of information. ”I assume you live in the Greatwood? Can I ask, what is it like there?” It was too hard to move in and out of Halo without the portals, and her world had been so small until recently.
She would never call herself good in the kind, gentle, caring sort of way. She would never call herself good in the way she was good, either, but there was something wonderful buried beneath the layers of protective debauchery.
Nephele speaks like a researcher, and Weaver wonders what she does in the Greatwood. To be honest, she wonders what the Fae do in general. Do they live like the rest of them, except with wings and their smaller size? Or do they live like something else entirely? She knows little of the Fae outside of stories, some of which do not paint the greatest light, though Weaver knows that all stories should not be taken for truth.
”I’m from Halo,” she offers, only realizing now that she doesn’t look like she’s from Halo. She’s getting used to being here. She’d traded for some lighter clothes more suited to the climate, had stored away her heavy black cloak (she feels a little not like herself without it), and had spent enough time here to have some vague sense of the land. ”My name is Weaver, by the way.” she says, realizing she’d never actually bothered to give that bit of information. ”I assume you live in the Greatwood? Can I ask, what is it like there?” It was too hard to move in and out of Halo without the portals, and her world had been so small until recently.
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
Quote by Charles Dickens
