She sees the way Zuriel lowers her horn toward her, the way her eyes narrow. She is tempted to make some other remark, likely about life being too damn short to be so serious, but she keeps her mouth shut instead. They don’t know her history, they don’t know that she speaks from experience rather than inexperience. They don’t know that pain cuts through her heart at the thought of her brother, her mother, her step-father. They don’t know that she moved forward because she had to, because moving forward was the only option left after tragedy. Drowning in the depth of sorrow was not an option she considered.
Was he drowning in sorrow he couldn’t move past? Well, not quite move past, because it never goes away. You just learn to live with it the same way you learn to live with the loss of a limb. The phantom of it will plague you. The memory of life with that limb doesn’t go away, but you learn to make do without it. Life changes, and you change with it into the shape of something vaguely human.
Outlander, he says, and she grins at that slightly. “At some point you become a Grounder, I think. How long you been here?” Maybe they don’t though. Maybe they always feel a little other, a little outside, a little lost. She can’t quite imagine living like that, but of course, this was home for her. Though she wonders if she’ll ever accept the Outlanders in Halo as Halovians. Eventually, maybe, when their faces become one of the faces she simply knows from sight, because eventually you just know all Halo faces to some degree. But maybe not, maybe they would always be the people who came later, the people who don’t really know what it is like to spend a life trapped in a wasteland. Only time would answer.
She doesn’t need to test the weight of her blade, strictly speaking. She knows it well, though she has always liked to test is anyway, mostly because Weaver is made of showmanship, of bark (though also bite). Besides it is a strange weapon that deserves a moment of attention. It is not a makeshift weapon as many scythes are. What grass would she have ever possibly had to thresh? But still, it is a unusual weapon, even if it is designed to be a weapon and not a tool.
“Latest disaster implies there has been a string of them.” It is more statement than question, allowing him to elaborate or not. She doesn’t pry too terribly into disasters that seem to hurt, but still, she’d like more information on them all the same. The statement is open ended, his to take or not. “My mother told me of that once in a fairy story,” this seems lighter, easier, of a topic, and so she latches on to it figuring he would be less likely to shy away from the answer. “I admit I hardly remember it, and I’m sure our version is not the Fae’s actual custom. What exactly is it?”
His counter is expected, going toward her unprotected side. She drops the shaft of scythe low enough to block his swing, taking a stumbling step backward at the strength of it. She is outmatched, of course, her strength nothing compared to his. If this were a real fight, it would not be one she would intentionally pick. The blade of the scythe comes forward with her backstep, and she sweeps it left, as if to cut across the front of his chest. Unlike the farming version of a scythe, her blade is double-edged so she can cut from either side, allowing for something slightly more sword-like, though given the angle of the blade only part of it would reach him in such a move.
“Outlander calling himself Warden of Halo. Still cold and icy as hell. With the portals open I assume trouble will come for us.” There is the truth. She’d rather the portals be closed, for all she is enjoying getting out of Halo. There are herbs in her pack to be brought back to Halo, game that is not the same thing she always catches at home, and more goods traded for at the market than they could have dreamed of. And yet she’d give it all back for the quiet that was Halo before.
Was he drowning in sorrow he couldn’t move past? Well, not quite move past, because it never goes away. You just learn to live with it the same way you learn to live with the loss of a limb. The phantom of it will plague you. The memory of life with that limb doesn’t go away, but you learn to make do without it. Life changes, and you change with it into the shape of something vaguely human.
Outlander, he says, and she grins at that slightly. “At some point you become a Grounder, I think. How long you been here?” Maybe they don’t though. Maybe they always feel a little other, a little outside, a little lost. She can’t quite imagine living like that, but of course, this was home for her. Though she wonders if she’ll ever accept the Outlanders in Halo as Halovians. Eventually, maybe, when their faces become one of the faces she simply knows from sight, because eventually you just know all Halo faces to some degree. But maybe not, maybe they would always be the people who came later, the people who don’t really know what it is like to spend a life trapped in a wasteland. Only time would answer.
She doesn’t need to test the weight of her blade, strictly speaking. She knows it well, though she has always liked to test is anyway, mostly because Weaver is made of showmanship, of bark (though also bite). Besides it is a strange weapon that deserves a moment of attention. It is not a makeshift weapon as many scythes are. What grass would she have ever possibly had to thresh? But still, it is a unusual weapon, even if it is designed to be a weapon and not a tool.
“Latest disaster implies there has been a string of them.” It is more statement than question, allowing him to elaborate or not. She doesn’t pry too terribly into disasters that seem to hurt, but still, she’d like more information on them all the same. The statement is open ended, his to take or not. “My mother told me of that once in a fairy story,” this seems lighter, easier, of a topic, and so she latches on to it figuring he would be less likely to shy away from the answer. “I admit I hardly remember it, and I’m sure our version is not the Fae’s actual custom. What exactly is it?”
His counter is expected, going toward her unprotected side. She drops the shaft of scythe low enough to block his swing, taking a stumbling step backward at the strength of it. She is outmatched, of course, her strength nothing compared to his. If this were a real fight, it would not be one she would intentionally pick. The blade of the scythe comes forward with her backstep, and she sweeps it left, as if to cut across the front of his chest. Unlike the farming version of a scythe, her blade is double-edged so she can cut from either side, allowing for something slightly more sword-like, though given the angle of the blade only part of it would reach him in such a move.
“Outlander calling himself Warden of Halo. Still cold and icy as hell. With the portals open I assume trouble will come for us.” There is the truth. She’d rather the portals be closed, for all she is enjoying getting out of Halo. There are herbs in her pack to be brought back to Halo, game that is not the same thing she always catches at home, and more goods traded for at the market than they could have dreamed of. And yet she’d give it all back for the quiet that was Halo before.
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
Quote by Charles Dickens
