They might have gotten along, Deimos and her mother, if time had proceeded differently. Time never played fairly though, never proceeded as you wanted it to. Sometimes she wondered if her mother was truly dead, or if she’d found a way to escape. To escape Halo, to escape Caido, just simply to escape. Straia loved her children, but her children were not enough to hold her. She’d raised them not to need their mother, to be independent creatures, to go on even once their mother was long gone. She knows this version of the story is unlikely, that the truth is probably as simple as a snow squall or an avalanche or an Ursur; the things that took lives in Halo often. Yet Weaver could not imagine her mother succumbing to something so common and would rather believe that her mother had chosen to leave them behind.
They spend some time crafting, conversation dotting their time together rather than filing it. Weaver is made of more words than he is, but she doesn’t necessarily mind not talking, doesn’t mind simply sitting in quiet companionship. He’s the closest thing to a friend she has in the Grounds, and she finds it sort of nice to simply watch him create and she fumbles through the act. The last piece he makes is stunning, a strange whale made of constellations, and she wonders what inspired the creation but doesn’t ask.
Instead she listens as he answers her question, speaking of a family as well and then the militia. ”When did you join?” she asks, somehow expecting him to say that he’d joined just as soon as he was old enough. He was made for war, in a way, despite the kindness in him. He was built for it, certainly, and had the temperament and personality for it. Unlike her. ”I suppose Neron is probably building some sort of army for Halo, though I suspect I won’t be enlisting anytime soon. Orders grate on me,” she says with a bit of a grin, sure this doesn’t come as a surprise. The training would be useful though.
They spend some time crafting, conversation dotting their time together rather than filing it. Weaver is made of more words than he is, but she doesn’t necessarily mind not talking, doesn’t mind simply sitting in quiet companionship. He’s the closest thing to a friend she has in the Grounds, and she finds it sort of nice to simply watch him create and she fumbles through the act. The last piece he makes is stunning, a strange whale made of constellations, and she wonders what inspired the creation but doesn’t ask.
Instead she listens as he answers her question, speaking of a family as well and then the militia. ”When did you join?” she asks, somehow expecting him to say that he’d joined just as soon as he was old enough. He was made for war, in a way, despite the kindness in him. He was built for it, certainly, and had the temperament and personality for it. Unlike her. ”I suppose Neron is probably building some sort of army for Halo, though I suspect I won’t be enlisting anytime soon. Orders grate on me,” she says with a bit of a grin, sure this doesn’t come as a surprise. The training would be useful though.
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
Quote by Charles Dickens
