You just went on. That was the only way past loss, devastation, destruction, ruin. She knows what it feels like to claw back out from the depths of hell, knows what it’s like to try and piece your heart back together just enough to make sure it can still pump blood through your body. Because it will never be whole, that torn and tattered heart, but you don’t need a whole heart to keep living. It just aches to live more than it did before.
They were on day two of their excursion into the Hallowed Grounds. Weaver hadn’t seen much of Korbin. He kept to the settled areas, the market, and to the beds of pretty girls. She kept to the wilds, to scavenging, and the beds of pretty boys. They made for a stellar team.
Today she finds herself in a forest. She’d seen the trees yesterday from her adventure in the field, though she hadn’t ventured in. Trees. How strange. They were fairy stories to her, a girl raised in a frozen wasteland. She knew only caves and snowdrifts and blizzards, but not the darkness of so many trees. She finds herself thankful for the shade they provide though, after baking in the relentless sun of Longheat yesterday.
She’s got her pack with her, nearly empty, and every intention of filling it with whatever mushrooms, herbs and probably edible things she can find. Korbin would take the job of finding someone to tell them what it all was. If she was infinitely lucky, something would be hallucinogenic. Hey, it gets really boring in Halo sometimes. There are days it’s too cold to ever step foot outside the house, and so, they might as well do something. Equally useful would be something with some healing value, she supposes.
She’s been wandering through the forest for some time, marking trees as she goes so she doesn’t end up hopelessly lost, when she spots a stranger and a unicorn. She debates disappearing into a copse of dense trees off to the right before he spots her, but the look of him interests her enough she doesn’t. He looks built for war, or at the very least a good fight, and she can’t help but wonder if he isn’t someone useful to know. So Weaver keeps on course, closing the distance between them, gently slashing through a few trees as she goes with one of her many knives. She is a collector of them, it seems, mostly because they are prone to getting lost in battle and so she has many.
“She’s a pretty thing,” she says, nodding her chin in the direction of the unicorn. Usually she likes to start out conversations with strangers in a rather more biting manner, but she’s not in her territory, and he was not the sort of dude you messed with. So she settles for a compliment, coming to lean on a tree nearby, pack slung over one shoulder and her long braid over the other. “Weaver,” she offers.
They were on day two of their excursion into the Hallowed Grounds. Weaver hadn’t seen much of Korbin. He kept to the settled areas, the market, and to the beds of pretty girls. She kept to the wilds, to scavenging, and the beds of pretty boys. They made for a stellar team.
Today she finds herself in a forest. She’d seen the trees yesterday from her adventure in the field, though she hadn’t ventured in. Trees. How strange. They were fairy stories to her, a girl raised in a frozen wasteland. She knew only caves and snowdrifts and blizzards, but not the darkness of so many trees. She finds herself thankful for the shade they provide though, after baking in the relentless sun of Longheat yesterday.
She’s got her pack with her, nearly empty, and every intention of filling it with whatever mushrooms, herbs and probably edible things she can find. Korbin would take the job of finding someone to tell them what it all was. If she was infinitely lucky, something would be hallucinogenic. Hey, it gets really boring in Halo sometimes. There are days it’s too cold to ever step foot outside the house, and so, they might as well do something. Equally useful would be something with some healing value, she supposes.
She’s been wandering through the forest for some time, marking trees as she goes so she doesn’t end up hopelessly lost, when she spots a stranger and a unicorn. She debates disappearing into a copse of dense trees off to the right before he spots her, but the look of him interests her enough she doesn’t. He looks built for war, or at the very least a good fight, and she can’t help but wonder if he isn’t someone useful to know. So Weaver keeps on course, closing the distance between them, gently slashing through a few trees as she goes with one of her many knives. She is a collector of them, it seems, mostly because they are prone to getting lost in battle and so she has many.
“She’s a pretty thing,” she says, nodding her chin in the direction of the unicorn. Usually she likes to start out conversations with strangers in a rather more biting manner, but she’s not in her territory, and he was not the sort of dude you messed with. So she settles for a compliment, coming to lean on a tree nearby, pack slung over one shoulder and her long braid over the other. “Weaver,” she offers.
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
Quote by Charles Dickens
