She’d actually decided to stay in a populated area today. It was unlike Weaver not to disappear into the wilds and hope upon hope she didn’t die. The wilds were useful places though and Weaver was always a risk taker, foolishly so. She counted on her nine lives (and the fact that not a single one of the gods wanted her) to keep her alive. Vi kept trying to pawn her off on Mort and Mort kept punting her back, it seemed. This was probably not even true. Probably she was just really lucky and the gods hadn’t the foggiest who she was, but still, she liked the image of two gods shoving her between some door and fighting about it for the next however many years she lived.
It amused her, given that she did not amuse the gods. All for a war she wasn’t even alive for, but apparently that didn’t matter much. She supposes if you are immortal it’s easy to hold a grudge longer than strictly necessary. It is also easy to see how quickly humanity might become what it was then. Besides, she will forever wonder if she is the daughter of someone who did fight against the gods, because it seemed like a very fitting thing for her mother to have done, even if the timelines made no sense at all. Time was funny, wasn’t it?
She’s not sure what she’s looking for, if anything, as she wanders through the settlement. Halo’s town was more impressive, honestly, which wasn’t saying much given that nothing in Halo was impressive, except the palace and the fact that anyone even survived there in the first place. Granted she gathers the Hallowed Ground was a ruin before the Outlanders came in, and she wonders what devastation the war had wrought here or the events since. She’s caught enough whispers and stories to know that maybe Halo had been better off in isolation.
There are plenty of peddlers and merchants around here though, and she figures she might stumble into something useful or simply something interesting. Looking almost bored, (though her amber eyes are alert and interested, giving her away to any keen observer) Weaver makes her way through the settlement, stopping only when she sees a face peering out of the door of some sort of shop. Signs would have been helpful, but that was probably too much to ask of a rebuilding community (Halo had a questionable amount of signs, and they were not rebuilding). “Morning,” she says by way of greeting. “Afternoon? Whatever time it is.” she says, her voice dismissive of the fact she doesn’t know. She glances up to the sun but it doesn’t help her because it’s at that precarious point between morning and afternoon where the difference doesn’t actually matter anyway.
It amused her, given that she did not amuse the gods. All for a war she wasn’t even alive for, but apparently that didn’t matter much. She supposes if you are immortal it’s easy to hold a grudge longer than strictly necessary. It is also easy to see how quickly humanity might become what it was then. Besides, she will forever wonder if she is the daughter of someone who did fight against the gods, because it seemed like a very fitting thing for her mother to have done, even if the timelines made no sense at all. Time was funny, wasn’t it?
She’s not sure what she’s looking for, if anything, as she wanders through the settlement. Halo’s town was more impressive, honestly, which wasn’t saying much given that nothing in Halo was impressive, except the palace and the fact that anyone even survived there in the first place. Granted she gathers the Hallowed Ground was a ruin before the Outlanders came in, and she wonders what devastation the war had wrought here or the events since. She’s caught enough whispers and stories to know that maybe Halo had been better off in isolation.
There are plenty of peddlers and merchants around here though, and she figures she might stumble into something useful or simply something interesting. Looking almost bored, (though her amber eyes are alert and interested, giving her away to any keen observer) Weaver makes her way through the settlement, stopping only when she sees a face peering out of the door of some sort of shop. Signs would have been helpful, but that was probably too much to ask of a rebuilding community (Halo had a questionable amount of signs, and they were not rebuilding). “Morning,” she says by way of greeting. “Afternoon? Whatever time it is.” she says, her voice dismissive of the fact she doesn’t know. She glances up to the sun but it doesn’t help her because it’s at that precarious point between morning and afternoon where the difference doesn’t actually matter anyway.
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
Quote by Charles Dickens
