Weaver chuckles slightly at the woman’s response. She can’t quite help herself, but it’s a good natured sort of sound. Before she has a chance to respond though, the woman continues, turning the answer into something a little less factual and a little more personal. ”My father,” she says, finding a small ledge to put the lantern and the paint on so she can begin to decorate. ”Well, stepfather, technically, not that it much matters. He raised me.” She shrugs slightly, the difference between stepfather and father meaningless to a girl who never knew her real father. He was a story to her and little more, and she did not mourn not knowing him.
”You?” she asks, nodding to the lantern with it’s snow-soaked patterns. Clever. Weaver opens some of the paint and dips a brush in, beginning to make swirls on the lantern. She’s never quite sure what to make for her Accepted father, who simply hunted and provided for them, who trained them and loved them. His lantern was always the plainest of the three. ”I’m Weaver,” she adds after a moment. ”Help yourself to paint, if you want some.”
”You?” she asks, nodding to the lantern with it’s snow-soaked patterns. Clever. Weaver opens some of the paint and dips a brush in, beginning to make swirls on the lantern. She’s never quite sure what to make for her Accepted father, who simply hunted and provided for them, who trained them and loved them. His lantern was always the plainest of the three. ”I’m Weaver,” she adds after a moment. ”Help yourself to paint, if you want some.”
weaver
-- kiss you like a whiskey fire --
