how can you rise
if you have not burned?
Time passes in a blur. None of it is truly believable, and she keeps expecting to wake up from this nightmare. But it is real; so so real. She moves through Snowcloak in a trance, surveying the damage that she would need to take stock of properly in the morning when there was light. She stops first at the Academy to check on those that were ushered into the school for protection, making sure they have what they need, as best as Halo is able to provide. It is chaos, but the people of Halo know how to take care of themselves, and there are those who have stepped up to ensure that others less capable are taken care of as well. It warms her heart to see the kindness of Halovians in the midst of all this.It reminds her why she is doing this.
The Kraai is in a similar state, with some of her staff along with Korbin and Loren taking charge. There is little she can do to help with the healing, but it doesn’t take long for people to find her, for news to spread. And soon she finds herself directing people to rooms, walking them down the street to other houses, collecting furs and blankets to make sure they could keep the people warm as they slept on floors beside fireplaces.
She has no idea how much time passes. Eventually, one of the women finds her with a polite but rather firm suggestion that Weaver go sleep. She knows the woman well; a healer, and one of the ones who had long ago saved Weaver’s life. With a nod, Weaver agrees, though first she makes her way back into the Kraai for a bottle of whiskey and Loren.
She grabs the whiskey first, though he is not hard to find. She assumes he is as exhausted as she is. Though maybe that mage glass gives him energy as well. She doesn’t know, but she is glad it was him and not Zariah that grabbed it. Weaver takes his hand, leading him or dragging him out of the Kraai, expecting he won’t want to leave but refusing to leave by herself. Besides, at some point they were just too useless to be of any help.
She leads him back to her house a few doors down, the one place she selfishly hadn’t offered up as a base, knowing she needed somewhere quiet to go. In they go and up to her room. It is a mess, as one might expect, though only in a cluttered sort of way. Clothes strewn about, various knives laying on her furniture. She adds to the clutter, removing her scythe and her knives, kicking off her boots, and then collapses onto the bed. Never mind that she is disgusting, covered in blood and sweat. Never mind that she needs a bath. She cannot quite think, and all she can do is hold her head in her hands. ”What am I doing, Loren? Gods...what are going to do?” Her voice is quiet as her head swims.
WEAVER
