From being an Abandoned who had rarely left the Hollowed Grounds, to embracing the call of adventure, to dying and being reborn first as an Ascended and then as an Ancient, Maea has gone through quite the amount of changes in her life. One thing remains common, though, in her attempts to find out just where she belongs; she’s always had a craving for knowledge which has brought her to so many places and to meet so many people here in Caido. We can’t wait to see what else is in store for her!
Congratulations, Maea!
Credits
Court of the Fallen was created in October of 2018 by Odd, Honey, and Crooked.
Skinning and hosting by the epically talented Kaons, and functionality fanciness by the coding magic of Neowulf. If you ever see either of them around, make sure to show them some love!
01-03-2020, 11:23 PM (This post was last modified: 01-12-2020, 02:57 PM by Wessex.)
It's Lord of the Flies in my mind tonight
She comes bearing gifts - out of respect for the requested trade and also because she knows it can’t be easy hunting in Halo. Everything is either white, can kill you, moves quickly, or is a combination of any of the three. Besides, she’s looking to make ‘friends,’ maybe get some information, maybe talk to a lesser deity, maybe go up against an Ursur; anything that keeps Wessex away from the Grounds just seems like a good idea at the moment, regardless of whether or not it’s actually a good idea.
Carrying a dead luxere buck across her shoulders, Wessex nimbly turns this way and that in order to get through the Marketplace crowd. To her credit, she doesn’t even try to apologize when she accidentally whacks a couple of people in the face - so there’s the ex-Queen we all know and love. She’s still in their somewhere, just a tad bit traumatized. Yes, even the most stalwart of the Grounders can be traumatized by the mass scale of death she witnessed.
There’s irony in there somewhere that it was a mud monster and not a LongNight monster that triggers it, but let’s not try to sort that bit out.
Carrying her prize to a more or less open area, she finds herself a bit out of place - most of the hawkers have some sort of stall, maybe a sign. She’s just a blonde, under-dressed woman with meat to sell, clearly not a native of Halo and clearly unaffected by the cold. Taking a seat on the steps, Wessex hovers over her kill with an open eye - observing and quietly waiting. With a commodity between her legs, someone’s bound to bite.
The market was Korbin’s job. He was vastly more of a people person (you know, the kind of person that other people liked) than Weaver, and besides, she was usually too busy making sure they didn’t starve. Occasionally he forced her, or had a valid excuse not to go. Today was the former, Korbin’s entire excuse being, ”Go talk to someone other than me. There are newbies with the portal open, including some rather strapping young men you haven’t yet slept with.”
It was a valid argument. The pickings in Halo were slim and the options of things to do that kept you warm were slimmer still, and both Hale siblings were well known for being open to ideas, shall we say. They were stellar wingmen for one another and had few compunctions, except that their involvement together ended at the roll of wingman. Weaver had only tossed a lumpy old pillow at him in response, put on her cloak and gathered a small collection of things for trade. Slinging her scythe over her shoulder, she’d opened the door just in time for Korbin to yell, loud enough for the neighbors to hear, “Go forth and conquer!” with very little sincerity and a whole lot of laughing.
She’d slammed the door in his face.
The sun, today, was at least not absolutely blinding and so she could see without her eyes bleeding. Home to the market was a short walk, and she was about to beeline straight to the stalls she knew they needed when a stranger caught her eye. The tall, blonde woman was positioned on some stairs, wearing very little clothing given the temperature though it didn’t look like she was bothered by it. Ascended, maybe? Though that’s not really what attracts Weaver, even if the woman looks vaguely like someone Weaver could have been friends with in some other life. It’s the luxere at her feet, a large, mouthwatering thing that catches Weaver’s attention. The luxere avoid her and her pathetic bit of dark magic, and though she can set a good trap they seem to be too smart to get caught in them.
“That looks like bait,” she says, slipping past the crowd and into the clearing at the bottom of the steps. The woman may lack a stall or a sign, but she’s the most noticeable thing here because of it, or maybe simply because of what she brings. The lack of a setup makes Weaver think the woman isn’t here for the typical trades though, and wonders what exactly she wants.
She betrays little of her thoughts though, other than the fact she is here and clearly considering being caught on the line. Weaver’s body language is easy and casual, the scythe cutting above her head like a dark halo, raven feathers along her neck ruffling in the slight breeze. Her amber eyes are keen, bright little suns that pay more attention than the rest of her demeanor would suggest. You don’t survive Halo without paying attention. “What are you hoping to catch?”
“Bait. Payment. A gift. Call it what you will.” There’s a crooked smile, a gesture over the carcass as the bold Halovian woman approaches. The other looks brash, confident, she walks through the Marketplace as if it were her own, and that kind of person is someone Wessex appreciates. Perhaps in another time, another place, they might be comrades-in-arms or hunt with each other. If there worlds had not been separated by however many miles, or if the portals had been open, the barrier not gone up - where would either of them have ended up?
Dodging the question for the time being, because she simply isn’t sure yet what she’s looking for, Wessex’s eyes roam, unabashedly appraising and reading into what bits she can see of the covered woman. Is there a strong body underneath all those layers? There’s no way to tell. So she’ll have to go on eyes and words and demeanor and - yes, weapons. “Nice blade. What did you do, attach a sickle to something longer? Weld it together?”
The woman seems to tick the first box: well-armed. Based on that and the brightness of her eyes, Wessex is intrigued enough to continue the conversation. She remains relaxed - elbows on spread knees, unfussed by the chilling wind ruffling through her short hair.
What is she hoping to catch? Who knows? What is the woman looking to find? may be the better question.
Weaver likes the cavalier way the other woman responds, the broad gesture above the carcass, the crooked smile. She notes the way the woman takes her in, appraising what she can see above the layers of clothing keeping Weaver warm. Weaver lets her, leaving her stance open rather than closed. Weaver has secrets, of a sort, but only because they hurt in the sort of way Weaver prefers not to hurt. It is one thing to bleed, one thing to feel the bite of a blade. It is another entirely to hurt in the way you cannot see. The Ursur tusk was the least of the pain she’d felt that day. There is little else about Weaver that is not an open book though. When you live in a town as small as Halo, you get used to everyone knowing everything.
“A gift,” she says, the topic of conversation falling on the scythe on her back. It’s an unusual weapon, one Weaver did not pick for herself. One day it was not there, and the next it was. “From my mother. She always liked things to be unorthodox.” She has no idea how it was made, and so cannot answer the question any better than that. It was made for her though, because it fits her. It is the right size for her height, the right weight for her muscles, the right balance for her movements. She hunts with traps and fights with knives, usually, but she can wield the scythe almost as well. It has some advantages, being longer than the average sword and double edged, used to hook or slice rather than simply slice. Still, it wasn’t always the most practical choice either.
Weaver does not miss the fact that the woman did not answer her question. So an undecided price, then, it seems. Perhaps a usual trade is not what this woman wants, but then again, this woman doesn’t seem the type to need someone else to give her much of anything other than perhaps information. Or entertainment. Everyone needed entertainment. It was distraction after all, and distraction was what they all needed. She knew little of the rest of Caido, but she suspected it was just another version of hell.
“Are you simply here with a gift for the locals? If so, you have found the most fun local possible, so it is your lucky day. What is it you hope to find here in Halo? Snow? We can spare some.” She gestures with her hands to the snow covering everything around them. The last part, of course, is a joke and her tone makes the clear. But the offer is not a joke. Weaver could play tour guide. That seemed like a worthwhile trade for a kill that could feed her for the foreseeable future.
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
“Unorthodox is fun,” Wessex says, her easy manner flashing towards something feral for a moment - predatory, one might think if they were inclined to be scared of someone like the Wraith. The truth is that she’s spent a good part of her life around weapons and she knows a finely crafted thing when she sees it. It’s eagerness and a wicked imagination of what the blade can do, mostly, with a shade of envy for having a mother who thought that way.
Then there’s the subtext that Wessex, herself, is unorthodox - that she enjoys the unusual and unexpected, whatever it might be, living her life on her toes and taking the punches as they come. Straddling the line between good and evil with precarious balance, one never knows which way she’ll turn - and that makes her dangerous.
But then some people find dangerous fun. And its been a long time since Wessex has had any fun. Lots of crises, verrrrrrry little fun.
“Oh really?” One eyebrow arches at the woman’s declaration of being the most fun local, and the Grounder has half a mind to believe it. A glance down at the half-frozen reindeer and a slight shrug. “I don’t need it, so yes, I suppose it’s a gift.” Pushing off from the step, Wessex stands and grabs one of the luxere’s back legs. “For a fun little tour. The local spots and maybe some information.” There’s a question there without her actually asking a question.
It may be the easiest day of hunting Weaver’s done in a long time, if she’s up to it.
Wessex’s response makes Weaver like her more. She is pleased to have someone admire the weapon rather than just wonder if she used to be a farmer (there were no farmers in Halo). It was too beautiful, too deadly a thing to be just an implement for cutting grass. The edge of the blade was wicked, hungry, and though Weaver did not fight unnecessarily she did fight. Fighting was necessary to survival, and Weaver had grown up knowing nothing else. Sometimes she found herself hungry for a fight, for adventure, for something new.
Weaver doesn’t find Wessex frightening, not in the way of something you run from. She was frightening in the way of something you ought, reasonably, to be wary of. There was power beneath the woman’s skin, there was something deadly in the way she moved or killed luxere and carried it about so easily. Wessex was adventure, she was new, she was the sort of thing Weaver foolishly ran too. Foolishly, perhaps, but she may not have to hunt for a month. Sometimes being a fool was well worth it.
“The market is a good place to start,” she says, gesturing around to the area behind her. Weaver heads in that direction, assuming Wessex is planning to bring the kill along given how she’d grabbed a foot of it, though she’d help if requested (Wessex did not seem like she needed Weaver’s help). They could wander in the direction of Weaver’s house and stop at the interesting spots along the way. “There’s a stall I particularly like.” she adds. She needed a gift for the upcoming festival if she was going to attend and see what it was all about, and she felt as though Wessex might appreciate the brand of weird that was sold here.
Weaver moves through the crowd with the ease of someone who knows a place. This has been all she has known for twenty-six years, and it was not as if they had abundant room to frolic and play. Outside the Citadel was a wasteland, it was a place where you went to kill or be killed and little else. “So tell me, what sort of juicy gossip do you care for? We get vastly little information here in Halo.” It is an invitation to the unasked question, but Weaver appreciated a desire for information. She sought it herself. It was also a warning, a reminder that Halo had basically been under a rock for most of her life and so there wasn’t necessarily much to tell.
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
It seems like the two women are on the same page. Wessex nods easily in agreement that the marketplace is a good starting point, and heaves the cold carcass to her shoulders again. More or less in step with Weaver, she lets the Halovian guide them through the stalls and people. “Lead the way. I could use something interesting for this gift-thing we’ve got in the Grounds.” She offers a slight shrug. Is it in the grounds? She can’t remember if it’s there or in the Greatwood, but she imagines she should be prepared, just in case.
Since participating seems to be a thing the Wraith is doing these days. (Yeah, it’s weird, we know.)
“Oh, the usual. Your name - I’m Wessex - How you feel about Neron and the Launceleyns, from a Natural perspective -” She gives the other a little side-eyed look, having boldly assumed that she is a Natural like herself. “And how you feel about the Old and New Gods. Have you ever seen a dragon? Easy small talk.” There’s a flash of an irreverent smirk, knowing that her questions are anything but the first things one might ask a stranger.
Weaver moves through the small crowd of the marketplace with the ease of someone who has done this all her life and who has a purpose. She knows where she is taking Wessex, though she is sure to go slow so Wessex can browse if she wants, and she points out the major features of the market and Halo as they pass by. “I was thinking I might come crash the party. Guess I should find myself a gift so I’m not too terrible a guest,” she says with a bit of a grin, knowing full well that it was hard to crash a party that everyone was invited to. It still feels like crashing though, since it is not a tradition found in Halo.
As they go, Weaver answers questions as well. They are easy questions, certainly not the things you ask a stranger but definitely the sort of things you ask someone you have just offered an entire luxere to in exchange. “Weaver. I am withholding judgment on Neron and the Launcelyns till they’ve had some time to prove themselves, or not, as the case may be. They are working on a magic school though.” She points in the direction of the palace where a new, nearly finished building stands nearby. It is a thing Weaver is particularly excited about, and even if she decides she hates the new (supposed) leaders of Halo, she will forever be slightly grateful for at least this one thing.
Her answer doesn’t exactly answer Wessex’s assumption that she is a Natural, but she doesn’t deny it either and that should be enough to confirm the suspicion. She was a pretty easy going Natural who didn’t necessarily mind the Outlanders so long as they proved not to suck. “We have mostly the Old Gods here, the New Gods being so very new and all and us just escaping a bubble. Though they seem to be trickling in. Me, personally? Well the Gods don’t care about me, and that’s about the end of it.” It is as good as admitting she’s an Abandoned, though with so little magic to speak of she might as well not be. IF she was going to be hated by the Gods regardless though, perhaps she should actually learn magic.
Weaver turns a corner to the right and the marketplace thins out, not necessarily seedy here but definitely on the outskirts of the main shops. Weaver stops before a stall that, at the moment seems unoccupied. Picking up a small, silver trinket on the table, Weaver studies it for a moment while they wait. “I’ve never seen a dragon. My mother said she defeated one once, though. Can’t promise that story is true, but she’d had a few white scales for ‘proof,’” Weaver makes little quotes with her free hand as she says the word proof. She puts the trinket back down and picks up something that looks vaguely like a large tooth. “Rumors have it there’s one living in The Fangs at the moment that you may actually be able to find if you look hard enough. Really, there's probably a few of them in the Fangs, since that’s their sort of home, but finding one seems like a wish most likely." She pauses, waving a hand at the items on the table. "Browse, Mavis won’t mind. She’ll be back in a few, I’m sure. It doesn’t look like much here but there are stories to each of her items. Sometimes they are even true, particularly if you feel drawn to the item.”
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
“You’re already a better guest than me,” Wessex comments wryly, all of a sudden unsure as to why she’s even bothering to procure a gift when the Fae are sure to try and shoot her again when she steps foot in the Greatwood. Couldn’t possibly be for levelling purposes, no-siree. Because the truth is that no, not everyone is invited. You have to be special to be uninvited. Trailing along more-or-less at Weaver’s side, the Ascended’s interest is piqued by the mention of a magic school.
“I imagine you can take care of yourself just fine, but keep an extra eye on Zariah. She ruled the Grounds for a short while and managed to do all sorts of shitty things to my people with her magic.” A brief pauses as she considers what she’s just said. “Then again, some people would probably tell you to be wary of me, so you know, grain of salt and all that.” What is it with the Launceleyn’s and schools anyway - Loren had made one and done nothing with it. Now Zariah has one in the works. What was it about them that they had to be seen as teachers and saviors and experts on things? The Wraith shakes her head, knowing that she’ll likely never understand that particular Outlander family.
More often than not, she thinks they might be better off if they’d never come to Caido. But her Lady thought otherwise, so…
Dragons, Fangs, great. She nods along and keeps up, making a mental mark on another stall for later, but otherwise letting Weaver lead the way. Weaver. What a weird name. Who names their kid after a profession? Had they more wandering time, she might have asked but they seem to have come to their destination. And by the looks of the wares for sale, the demi-god is actually interested. “If I were to go hunting for a dragon at some point, would you want to come?” she asks idly, dragging her fingers along the skull of something, though her eyes are for a magnificently wrought candle. “Wouldn’t be just us, of course. We have a whole Guild in the Grounds dedicated to hunting monsters and beasties.”
They haven’t done it in awhile, but that’s neither here nor there.
She laughs at the idea that she is a better guest. Weaver was highly likely to drink too much and cause a scene (or pretend, really) if she thought it might prove useful. But having never been to parties elsewhere, she’s not sure if that’s the tactic she’s going to go with. It works really well in bars, pretending to be drunk enough that people assume you won’t remember what they tell you, but she knows she’s treading on new ground here. Weaver finds herself more interested in the next comment about Zariah though, finding it interesting to hear the woman ruled the Grounds for a period and screwed it up. “You know, if she can teach me to do shitty things with my magic, I may forgive it.” Which was only sort of true. There was just a priority order, learn magic, defend Halo. Why that order? Because it was sort of hard to do anything useful when you were just small little Weaver with few useful skills. Everyone with half a mind for survival knew how to fight.
“And why should I be wary of you? Other than the fact I suspect you could snap my neck.” She says it with a raised brow, wondering how much Wessex would be willing to tell her. Weaver isn’t a fool. This stranger wasn’t the sort of stranger you messed with but rather, was the sort you befriended. But still, she is curious to see what information she could learn about the woman who so very easily carried a luxere around her neck like a scarf.
Had Wessex asked about her name, the answer would have been simple. The same type of woman who gives a scythe as a gift also names their kids weird names. Erebor. Weaver. Korbin. Korbin’s name was actually pretty normal, but Weaver and Erebor far less so. Also, who names their kid Wessex? Instead though, they talk of hunting dragons and Weaver quirks her head slightly, eyebrows raised. “I have a scythe and some knives, I’m not sure how much use I am against a dragon. But I will lead you through the Fangs and try to escape what sounds like my certain demise.” Weaver really is a fool sometimes, but to hunt a dragon…
Her thoughts are interrupted by Mavis, who comes shuffling through a flap in the tent. She’s an elderly woman who gives Weaver a rather affectionate smile. “Mavis,” Weaver greats, pulling two small bags of dried beef from her pack and tossing them over to the other woman. “Prepayment. We’re looking for some gifts for some sun releasing party.” Mavis catches the bags with shocking dexterity, and one has to wonder if this isn’t a routine for them. ”The Fae’s Catching of the Sun myth. I know it well. A tooth will not make a good gift,” says the old lady, pocketing the beef and plucking the tooth from Weavers hand. “I was not going to give them a tooth, Mavis.” Without another word, the lady hands Weaver a beautiful silver trinket in the shape of a dragonfly before turning her attention to Wessex.
Her eyes drift down to the candle that seems to have caught the woman’s attention. “It is said that, so long as you can see the light of this candle, it will keep you warm.” Perhaps unnecessary for the woman who has been drawn to it, but then again, most things here are just stories. Though there is still something worthy in a story. “Weaver, be a dear,” Mavis says, holding out the candle. Weaver reaches into a pocket and pulls out a stone and some metal. Striking the rock against the metal, a few sparks fly into a little tinder tin she keeps. She sticks the wick of the candle in the tin and it catches easily, returning the candle to Mavis. Though Weaver can do little else of use with her magic, she has never had a particular issue getting a fire started, though she kept them going by nature of being a Halovian and not the magic in her veins. Mavis holds the candle out to Wessex for her to take, if she’s so inclined.
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
It’s a dog-eat-dog world out here. While the Wraith doesn’t want any of said magic turned against her, she can appreciate the drive to better one’s self and do shitty things if need be. Half of her first life was spent doing shitty things in order to survive so, you know, no judgement here.
Wessex takes on a slightly mocking tone. “Oh, I’m mean and violent and attack people instead of talking and I don’t like Outlanders.” A slight shrug. “My opponents tend to die.” Another pause. “And I have a direct line to the very scary Voice.” Now she waggles her fingers in a ‘spoOoOoKy’ manner and offers a fanged grin to Weaver. “So you know, I’m not to be trusted.” For which part - or all of them - she doesn’t say; let the Halovian draw her own conclusions.
And as for the dragon... well, a guide is better than anything. “Totally fair.” The Ground’s bunch was ambitious, often foolish, and occasionally relied purely on their lucky dice rolls. It wasn’t smart, but the thrills made life worth living.
So. Here they are at the stall, and since that’s what they’ve really come for, Wessex is intrigued, boldly watching their interaction as she fingers the candle. Handing it over to Mavis, she nods in acceptance and after Weaver lights the candle, she holds her own hand out, copying the fire magic to burn a squiggly sun into either side of the wax, then snuffs the wick out. A half-burnt candle won’t do… once used is fine though. With a glance to the stall owner, she slings the luxere off her back and unveils the blades in her knuckles, sticking them easily into the reindeer and hacking a little until she slices off a haunch that would probably do for massive over-payment, but Wessex already knows she’ll be back.
“Pre-payment as well. I’ll be back for something else. For now - thank you.”
To be fair, she only wants to learn how to do shitty things. Whether or not she actually does them is undecided and another matter entirely. The definition of ‘shitty’ was subject to interpretation anyway, wasn’t it? Just as things were not obviously good and bad, neither were actions. No good deed goes unpunished and all that. Intentions go awry, or someone else simply sees the world in a different way. It’s not as if she’d planned to get her brother killed that day they’d gone hunting, but she did. Shitty thing, but all she’d been trying to do was feed them.
Wessex does in fact answer her question, and Weaver doesn’t look particularly concerned but she does look interested. “It sounds to me like they fear you and are hiding it.” Fear was a funny emotion, often covered up by bravado and blame, hidden beneath a blanket of anger. Anger was the easiest emotion to show, the easiest emotion to feel, instead of the truth. The truth of anger was hurt, sorrow, pain, fear, uncertainty. The heart of anger was usually the sort of thing no one wanted to admit.
Weaver watches with interest as Wessex takes the candle and burns a line into the wax and then snuffs out the wick. That was her magic. It’s already pretty clear Wessex isn’t Abandoned (there’s no way in hell she’d have a direct line to a god if she was), and now Weaver is really curious. Moreso when a few blades spring from the woman's hand as she hacks off some meat for Mavis. Weaver would be annoyed at watching her gift be given away so casually, but this was Mavis and there are a few reasons they are at this stall. The wares are some of her favorites here, but so was Mavis. “What are you?” she asks as she turns away from the stall, their business done. Maybe the other woman wouldn’t answer, but she’s curious. It’s not entirely obvious, and Weaver’s never met a demi-god so she can’t quite imagine that possibility.
“My place is this way, not far,” she says, nodding in the direction of her house. Let’s be real, she sure as hell wasn’t carrying that luxere herself. ”I take it you liked Mavis’ stall, at least. Anything else you wanted to see of Halo on this trip?” She might be a nosey tour guide, but she was a damn good tour guide otherwise.
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
Wessex is glad Weaver doesn’t seem too disturbed. She wasn’t trying to scare or intimidate the other woman… not that a person who carries a scythe around can be easily intimidated. The Wraith offers a small, off-handed shrug at her assessment, thinking that for some it might indeed be the case - for others it’s just good ‘ol fashioned brainwashing and a bad case of moral superiority. She can understand being disliked for her violence, as some adhere strictly to not wanting to kill people. But the holier-than-thou zealots can fuck right off.
The Grounder is understandably oblivious to the meat thing. But also she has nothing else to pay Mavis with, so… her bad.
As the two of them walk away and Weaver asks what she is, Wessex can’t help but chuckle in amusement. It won’t be the first time someone will ask her that, which she enjoys. If she can build an enigma around herself, all the better. “I’m an Ascended demi-god. Born Accepted, chose to Ascend a couple of years ago. The demi-god part is only a recent development.” Accepting the directions to Weaver’s place, she continues to carry the stiff luxere away from the stall, taking a good look around to see if she wants to stop anywhere else. “Eh, I think I’m good right now. The parts I want to see aren’t the most hospitable.” Her eyes rise to the peaks of the Fangs, where they will soon build a shrine for her Lady, and then down to where the Sea of Glass is, where she will soon encounter The Eirachi.
Which is not to imply that Weaver isn't up for it - only that she knows there is a limit to what people can withstand and she won't ask the woman to do anything like that. “What’s your deal?” she asks with a bit of side-eye. It’s an open ended question, Weaver can answer as little or as much as she wants, but Wessex would like to know more about the woman than why she carries a wicked blade on her back.
Wessex chuckles at the question, glad that the other she doesn’t seem offended. It is perhaps good neither of them are easily offended for they are both, it seems, the type to easily offend. Though Weaver would stick by her question anyway. What are you? and Who are you? are two very different questions. You don’t ask the second unless all you want is a name. You learn the second through conversation and time, and Wessex has already given pieces of who she is. What though is more specific, particularly in Caido. The races left them all similar but inherently different.
”What does that mean for you, to be a demi-god?” The whole demi-god thing was a new development. Maybe they’d existed once, but not in recent history. Not so far as anyone in Halo had heard, anyway, and she is genuinely curious. She laughs at the next comment though. ”I am sure you will be just fine in the rest of Halo. Warning though, the people of Whitebrim are always hungry and they really don’t give a damn where the meat comes from.” Not that Wessex couldn’t fend for herself, but fighting off an entire town by yourself usually didn’t go super well. ”Also it generally sucks, so avoid unless you can’t help it.” Though sometimes you needed shelter in a sudden blizzard and it just so happened to be the closest place.
The next question is a very broad and vague one, and Weaver thinks for a moment before replying. Not because she has many secrets, but really because she has so few of them. There is not all that much to tell. ”This is kind of it,” she says, gesturing to Halo in general. ”Born and raised here, my story is a whole lot like others you’ll hear. Three family members dead, just me and my younger brother now. I hunt for a living and he does most of the trading and crafting. When I’m not doing that, you’ll find me at the bar or someone’s bed. There’s not a lot to do here,” she says with a shrug, because it’s true. There’s not a lot to do in Halo, and there’s not even a lot of people to do in Halo. You run through the viable options quickly. ”Born Abandoned, or just developed powers so early I don’t know the difference. Useless little bit of magic.” Useless little bit of magic that means the gods ignore her...though she doesn’t say the last part of that thought. It’s the sort of thing she generally keeps to herself, particularly to a demi-god.
It’s a bit quieter with the market behind them, but Weaver’s house is close enough to the heart of the Citadel that there’s still a good bit of hustle and bustle (for Halo, anyway). She stops in front of an unassuming place that looks a whole lot like the houses around it, all squished together as houses in towns often are. Through the window a roaring fire is evident in the house and a glimpse of her brother going about his day. “This is it. You are welcome to come in for food and rest, though I assume you don’t actually need either of those things. Or just come in, I suppose.” Still, Weaver had some manners and had to offer.
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
