She may not have much love for the Gods, or them for her (this was really the crux of the issue, because she’d love them if she did not feel abandoned), but still she comes to the shrine. It feels wrong not to show some respect, at least, and she cannot help but hope that one day maybe she’d get the answer she sought. And perhaps in some ways, it was simply her way of grieving. Weaver wasn’t a crier, but she came regularly with a candle in hand, an offering to Mort or Ludo (it didn’t matter which, really) and a flame for her brother.
Like usual, she arrives with her own candle in hand, unlit. Kneeling before the shrine, she takes out her flint box and lights the candle without magical aid. It seems wrong to use magic here, and so she doesn’t. She’s bitter, but not disrespectful. Placing the candle in a holder, Weaver watches the little flame dance. ”How’s my brother?” she asks, as she always does, hoping that maybe one day Mort or his herald would appear to answer the question.
She fishes in her pocket, pulling out a small wooden train to leave beside the candle. Ludo likes toys and trinkets, she’d heard. She had no idea what Mort liked, but still, she did her best and brought something with her each time as well.
Like usual, she arrives with her own candle in hand, unlit. Kneeling before the shrine, she takes out her flint box and lights the candle without magical aid. It seems wrong to use magic here, and so she doesn’t. She’s bitter, but not disrespectful. Placing the candle in a holder, Weaver watches the little flame dance. ”How’s my brother?” she asks, as she always does, hoping that maybe one day Mort or his herald would appear to answer the question.
She fishes in her pocket, pulling out a small wooden train to leave beside the candle. Ludo likes toys and trinkets, she’d heard. She had no idea what Mort liked, but still, she did her best and brought something with her each time as well.
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
Quote by Charles Dickens
