She wonders what others would think of her home, were she to ever invite someone over other than to share a bed. Those sorts of visits didn’t tend to invite judgment, at least not of one’s living space. Their house was reasonably well kept, as Korbin was handy and Weaver would, occasionally, clean things up. It was also very well lived in, with clothes in piles and the odds and ends of life scattered throughout the house. They were not the type to put things away with any regularity, and though it was not dirty, it was certainly a bit messy. Maybe she should care more, spend some time actually making the place presentable, but she couldn’t really see a reason why. It would just get messy again and it’s not as if she entertained anyone who cared.
Maybe this is why his workshop doesn’t bother her. It feels homey to her, to be surrounded with things half finished and well loved. It is how she lives, in a space too large for just her a Korbin and yet somehow filled. Much of their family’s things were still in the house as well, taking up space. They ought to do something about that, but instead they kept most of the things, trading them away bit by bit as the need arose. It made more sense in a practical way to clean out that, to use the items of their lost loved ones for food or candles when they need it. Also it seemed to make it easier, to part with them piece by piece.
She listens as he talks about his past in China without judgment. “No, you do not strike me as a soldier,” she says, though there’s no condemnation in her voice. Not all were cut out for such a life. Even she probably wasn’t a soldier, though for different reasons than him. Weaver simply couldn’t imagine following so many rules. She lived life as her own boss, and though she could certainly fight, that didn’t mean she wanted to do so for someone else. He goes on, offering a few items for her to look at.
Weaver makes her way back over to him, looking at the items he extends. They are all beautiful in their own way, though it is the sheath for the dagger that she picks up, examining as she talks. “I’m a hunter. My father and older brother taught me how. They used to do most of the hunting, but after they passed, it fell to me. I got food to feed my younger brother, he learned to trade and take care of the house. Roll reversal, I suppose, but it works for us.” She’s surprised she’s telling him this much, given how rarely she speaks of the deaths of her family. There are no details offered, for it is a story she does not want to revisit, but she finds that it is not hard to tell him the basics. His kindness is infectious and it softens her. “I’d love to trade for this,” she says, holding up the sheath slightly and offering the small bag of meat to him. She kept a number of those bags on hand, so she didn’t mind parting with the bag in her hand.
Maybe this is why his workshop doesn’t bother her. It feels homey to her, to be surrounded with things half finished and well loved. It is how she lives, in a space too large for just her a Korbin and yet somehow filled. Much of their family’s things were still in the house as well, taking up space. They ought to do something about that, but instead they kept most of the things, trading them away bit by bit as the need arose. It made more sense in a practical way to clean out that, to use the items of their lost loved ones for food or candles when they need it. Also it seemed to make it easier, to part with them piece by piece.
She listens as he talks about his past in China without judgment. “No, you do not strike me as a soldier,” she says, though there’s no condemnation in her voice. Not all were cut out for such a life. Even she probably wasn’t a soldier, though for different reasons than him. Weaver simply couldn’t imagine following so many rules. She lived life as her own boss, and though she could certainly fight, that didn’t mean she wanted to do so for someone else. He goes on, offering a few items for her to look at.
Weaver makes her way back over to him, looking at the items he extends. They are all beautiful in their own way, though it is the sheath for the dagger that she picks up, examining as she talks. “I’m a hunter. My father and older brother taught me how. They used to do most of the hunting, but after they passed, it fell to me. I got food to feed my younger brother, he learned to trade and take care of the house. Roll reversal, I suppose, but it works for us.” She’s surprised she’s telling him this much, given how rarely she speaks of the deaths of her family. There are no details offered, for it is a story she does not want to revisit, but she finds that it is not hard to tell him the basics. His kindness is infectious and it softens her. “I’d love to trade for this,” she says, holding up the sheath slightly and offering the small bag of meat to him. She kept a number of those bags on hand, so she didn’t mind parting with the bag in her hand.
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
Quote by Charles Dickens
