She laughs at his response, glad to find the man had the same terrible sense of humor as she did. His voice is accented, something she doesn’t think belongs to the Hallowed Grounds and he was not, by the looks of him, a Fae. Outlander then, she assumes, though really here she was the outlander, in a sense. A native to Caido, sure, but having been trapped in Halo until very recently the rest of Caido was still a mystery to her. She’d spent some time here recently first and foremost gathering, hunting, and collecting things she could not so easily get her hands on in Halo. Secondarily though, she was simply gathering information, history, an understanding of what had been happening in the world that had been barred to her until recently.
The feathers disappear from his arms, and she can see the tattoo on his shoulder now, the wing that trails down it. Well well, apparently they had similar taste in ink. Between that, his humor, and the easy demeanor that he wears she suspects they might get along just fine. That, or try to kill one another. Weaver tended to live in extremes like that, being the sort of person that tended to elicit extremes from others. You loved her or hated her, and there was very little in between.
“I wonder if that only feels like a blink to a god, though. What is three hundred years when you live forever?” she asks, though she can’t fathom it. She was not ascended, not ageless, not damn hard to kill. She was lucky, mostly, when it came to being alive, because that’s all living was - a gamble. There was a fifty fifty shot you’d wake up each morning and make it through the day.
He mentions that he has only been in once. “Same,” she offers, willing to give information in return for information freely offered. “Though I was coming from Halo. I suppose soon it’ll be twice so I can go back.” She was starting to miss home and she was sick of the melting heat and burning sun. The Hallowed Grounds seemed a more pleasant place to live, probably, than Halo, but she loved her home even if it was a frozen wasteland.
The feathers disappear from his arms, and she can see the tattoo on his shoulder now, the wing that trails down it. Well well, apparently they had similar taste in ink. Between that, his humor, and the easy demeanor that he wears she suspects they might get along just fine. That, or try to kill one another. Weaver tended to live in extremes like that, being the sort of person that tended to elicit extremes from others. You loved her or hated her, and there was very little in between.
“I wonder if that only feels like a blink to a god, though. What is three hundred years when you live forever?” she asks, though she can’t fathom it. She was not ascended, not ageless, not damn hard to kill. She was lucky, mostly, when it came to being alive, because that’s all living was - a gamble. There was a fifty fifty shot you’d wake up each morning and make it through the day.
He mentions that he has only been in once. “Same,” she offers, willing to give information in return for information freely offered. “Though I was coming from Halo. I suppose soon it’ll be twice so I can go back.” She was starting to miss home and she was sick of the melting heat and burning sun. The Hallowed Grounds seemed a more pleasant place to live, probably, than Halo, but she loved her home even if it was a frozen wasteland.
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
Quote by Charles Dickens
