She’d enjoyed her time in the Hollowed Ground, but it was nice to be back in Halo. Despite the rather bright yet freezing cold sun, she feels at home again, feels like herself again. She’s gone back to wearing her thick black boots, her wool clothes, and her black cloak with it’s raven-feather collar. Her and Korbin fell back into their routine, though she hadn’t told her brother about the deal with Sunjata. Weaver was trying not to get excited, not to get her hopes up, knowing that the fruition of such plans still depended on people other than her. She hated when things depended on people other than her.
The day had started out as usual, Weaver setting off to hunt and catching some of the usual fare; a few ningos (gods love them and their stupid, fat little selves) and a hare. It wasn’t much, but they always had stockpiles of meat. She simply kept hunting, replenishing those stockpiles of meat both to eat and trade. After skinning the animals and setting some of the meat to dry, she’d cleaned up and made her way over to the local tavern.
Entering almost hurts, as she remembers the smell of food in the VlamVloed, the number of bottles lined up behind the shelves, the richness of the wine, the strength of the vodka. She cannot help but dream of what she could have here, if Sunjata comes through on his half of the bargain. Still, she finds herself sliding into her usual stool toward the end of the bar, the bartender slapping her usual drink in front of her. It may be piss, but it’s what they’ve got, and it’s home.
The day had started out as usual, Weaver setting off to hunt and catching some of the usual fare; a few ningos (gods love them and their stupid, fat little selves) and a hare. It wasn’t much, but they always had stockpiles of meat. She simply kept hunting, replenishing those stockpiles of meat both to eat and trade. After skinning the animals and setting some of the meat to dry, she’d cleaned up and made her way over to the local tavern.
Entering almost hurts, as she remembers the smell of food in the VlamVloed, the number of bottles lined up behind the shelves, the richness of the wine, the strength of the vodka. She cannot help but dream of what she could have here, if Sunjata comes through on his half of the bargain. Still, she finds herself sliding into her usual stool toward the end of the bar, the bartender slapping her usual drink in front of her. It may be piss, but it’s what they’ve got, and it’s home.
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
Quote by Charles Dickens
