She may have little respect for the old gods, but she wasn’t a fool, and she had a healthy fear of them. She has no ambitions, no dreams of raising an army to repeat history. Whatever respect she lacked stemmed from hurt, from rejection, and it was easiest to wear such emotions as bitterness and anger than to admit she simply wished they cared. ”I am sure they do have good reason,” she agreed, knowing the history, knowing that once someone turned on them. The Voice, probably, amongst that crowd. ”It just seems to me that to keep us close would serve them better. Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer, and all that. Instead they shun as, and it feels like betrayal and punishment for a crime we never committed.”
Weaver shrugs. They perhaps would not see eye to eye on this, and that was okay. Weaver can understand, she supposes, because she might come more readily to their defense if they had ever bothered to show her even a glimmer of kindness, as it seems Ludo has done for Maea. But they have not.
Weaver watches, a light laugh escaping her, as the burning log drifts into the air with the snowballs. Weaver tugs at the fire around the log, taking pieces of it with her and painting them across the sky, leaving streaks of gray smoke against the gray, Halovian sky. It is vastly easier to work with existing fire than it ever had been, and she finds she can move the flames with her hands tucked beneath her cloak with more ease than she expected, though her concentration falters a bit as Maea speaks again.
”Oh?” she raises a brow, interested in the way a girl friend of much longer might be interested, but Weaver is quick to befriend those around her. She cares fiercely, even when she is unwilling to admit it. ”Any chance you want to share who this someone is? I won’t pry, if you do not though.” The fire in the sky flickers out entirely, erased by her curiosity in the boy instead that leaves Maea worrying on that pretty lower lip of hers.
Weaver shrugs. They perhaps would not see eye to eye on this, and that was okay. Weaver can understand, she supposes, because she might come more readily to their defense if they had ever bothered to show her even a glimmer of kindness, as it seems Ludo has done for Maea. But they have not.
Weaver watches, a light laugh escaping her, as the burning log drifts into the air with the snowballs. Weaver tugs at the fire around the log, taking pieces of it with her and painting them across the sky, leaving streaks of gray smoke against the gray, Halovian sky. It is vastly easier to work with existing fire than it ever had been, and she finds she can move the flames with her hands tucked beneath her cloak with more ease than she expected, though her concentration falters a bit as Maea speaks again.
”Oh?” she raises a brow, interested in the way a girl friend of much longer might be interested, but Weaver is quick to befriend those around her. She cares fiercely, even when she is unwilling to admit it. ”Any chance you want to share who this someone is? I won’t pry, if you do not though.” The fire in the sky flickers out entirely, erased by her curiosity in the boy instead that leaves Maea worrying on that pretty lower lip of hers.
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
Quote by Charles Dickens
