Weaver liked to think of herself as stable, and probably she was. Raised to be as tough as the land that she grew up in, Weaver’s mother taught her children to be resilient, to expect heartbreak. Nothing came with a candy coating during childhood, and Weaver thanked her mother for it now. Of course, Weaver still hurt, still felt, still knew the pain of loss, but she simply coped with it better than others. Life was for living. It was a disservice to those who passed to stand around and waste whatever life she was granted.
Weaver chuckles slightly, only because no one was actually killed. ”Noted. I won’t practice indoors for a while,” she says, pausing for a moment as she watches Maea work. ”I hate to admit it, but that stupid training worked. I couldn’t do anything besides flicker a candle before.” Weaver really wants to hate Zariah, but she can’t quite bring herself to. Friendship seems unlikely, but still, Zariah’s methods worked. The Archmage could turn Weaver into what she dreamed, and Weaver might have to learn to bite her temper down in order to achieve it.
The detail that Maea is able to create is fantastic, and Weaver enjoys watching. The little sun sputters out for the moment, as Weaver watches and listens. A feeling. Weaver is silent for a while, trying to imagine what Maea describes. The concept isn’t foreign to her. When she heals, she can feel the wound, can stitch small cuts and remove small bruises with nothing but a thought. ”No, I think that makes sense.” she says.
Ensuring she is not too close to Maea, Weaver sticks out a hand and stares at it, looking a little ridiculous. Maea won’t judge, she hopes. She tries to imagine the feeling of fire the same way she might imagine the feeling of a cut. She can feel a shimmering warmth, and for a moment something seems to flicker in her palm before disappearing. She lets out a breath, feeling tired already, and she takes a moment to pause. ”When did you first learn your magic?” she asks, curious if Maea had never known anything different, as Weaver had.
Weaver chuckles slightly, only because no one was actually killed. ”Noted. I won’t practice indoors for a while,” she says, pausing for a moment as she watches Maea work. ”I hate to admit it, but that stupid training worked. I couldn’t do anything besides flicker a candle before.” Weaver really wants to hate Zariah, but she can’t quite bring herself to. Friendship seems unlikely, but still, Zariah’s methods worked. The Archmage could turn Weaver into what she dreamed, and Weaver might have to learn to bite her temper down in order to achieve it.
The detail that Maea is able to create is fantastic, and Weaver enjoys watching. The little sun sputters out for the moment, as Weaver watches and listens. A feeling. Weaver is silent for a while, trying to imagine what Maea describes. The concept isn’t foreign to her. When she heals, she can feel the wound, can stitch small cuts and remove small bruises with nothing but a thought. ”No, I think that makes sense.” she says.
Ensuring she is not too close to Maea, Weaver sticks out a hand and stares at it, looking a little ridiculous. Maea won’t judge, she hopes. She tries to imagine the feeling of fire the same way she might imagine the feeling of a cut. She can feel a shimmering warmth, and for a moment something seems to flicker in her palm before disappearing. She lets out a breath, feeling tired already, and she takes a moment to pause. ”When did you first learn your magic?” she asks, curious if Maea had never known anything different, as Weaver had.
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
Quote by Charles Dickens
