They walk in silence, through the back door of the bar into some sort of backyard. It is unassuming, as she would expect if she is being led to the underworld of the Hollowed Grounds. Halo didn’t have much of an underworld, at least not that she’d ever been able to find. A bit of a black market, if you knew where to look, but that’s all she could ever find. So either she was a terrible looker or it wasn’t there. There’d been so few of them for so long, and no hope of the world growing larger, that it is possible there’d simply never been a need. What plotting did they need to do when the goal was simply to survive, to live, to feed themselves and stay warm.
Now though, she wonders what is brewing in Halo that she isn’t aware of. What might occur with the world opening up to them?
He takes her hand, leading her down a set of stairs and she wonders what he’s leading her around. His movements are careful, and she suspects without him teaching her the details she’d never get back down here in one piece. Make a mental note of that one, Weaver. Dying is overrated (she knows). They reach the bottom of the stairwell and his grin is devilish now, something so very fitting on his face. She simply looks expectant, waiting to be impressed. The door opens, and she moves inside at his gesture, looking around at the dark interior of the room, various odds and ends around the room, a desk in the middle. It is not much to look at, but it is exactly what she might expect of a secret meeting room.
A hint of smoke lingers in the air, and there’s something pleasant to the leftover smell. She has always preferred drinking to smoking, but she did enjoy an occasional smoke as well, whatever the breed. “And what is it these devils advocate for?” she asks, her own grin devilish as well.
Now though, she wonders what is brewing in Halo that she isn’t aware of. What might occur with the world opening up to them?
He takes her hand, leading her down a set of stairs and she wonders what he’s leading her around. His movements are careful, and she suspects without him teaching her the details she’d never get back down here in one piece. Make a mental note of that one, Weaver. Dying is overrated (she knows). They reach the bottom of the stairwell and his grin is devilish now, something so very fitting on his face. She simply looks expectant, waiting to be impressed. The door opens, and she moves inside at his gesture, looking around at the dark interior of the room, various odds and ends around the room, a desk in the middle. It is not much to look at, but it is exactly what she might expect of a secret meeting room.
A hint of smoke lingers in the air, and there’s something pleasant to the leftover smell. She has always preferred drinking to smoking, but she did enjoy an occasional smoke as well, whatever the breed. “And what is it these devils advocate for?” she asks, her own grin devilish as well.
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
Quote by Charles Dickens
