Not everyone is so easily unoffended. Weaver doesn’t tend to give a damn, simply because life is too short, but she’s grown used to the looks of suspicion, narrowed eyes, sometimes disgust. To their credit, she often jokes about death, stealing, and other seedy activities, but she is joking. It’s a dark sense of humor, she knows, but she still prefers those who aren’t really bothered by it. Like Sascha, who’d joked right along with her when she’d suggested he could definitely carry a dead body for her. Those were her type of people, the ones who didn’t take life too seriously.
Weaver watches as the bartender goes for a blue bottle on the shelf. Sunjata had run his fingers over the bottle, pondering, making a show of his choice. This woman simply goes for it, pouring a taste for Weaver as she explains what it is. “A honey hammock?” she asks, liking the image the woman paints but not entirely understanding it. One does not go lazing about in the sun in Halo, after all.
Weaver takes the glass, the state of her hands some indication of the life she leads. They are dry, despite her best efforts, the nail as well cared for as she can but brittle from the constant cold of Halo and so never all that long. They are not calloused, really, given that she’s almost often wearing gloves, but they do look like hands that have seen a lifetime of honest work. Mostly honest work, anyway. Taking a sip, Weaver savors it for a moment, letting the flavor sit on her tongue before swallowing.
“Sweet,” she says, “though not too sweet. I do like it, and I think I can picture what you describe in the taste.” It is a high compliment from Weaver, as good as saying ‘you are damn good at your job’, though Weaver is not always so direct with compliments. She puts the glass down so Raza can fill it. “Halo born and raised. It’s a little warm here.”
Weaver watches as the bartender goes for a blue bottle on the shelf. Sunjata had run his fingers over the bottle, pondering, making a show of his choice. This woman simply goes for it, pouring a taste for Weaver as she explains what it is. “A honey hammock?” she asks, liking the image the woman paints but not entirely understanding it. One does not go lazing about in the sun in Halo, after all.
Weaver takes the glass, the state of her hands some indication of the life she leads. They are dry, despite her best efforts, the nail as well cared for as she can but brittle from the constant cold of Halo and so never all that long. They are not calloused, really, given that she’s almost often wearing gloves, but they do look like hands that have seen a lifetime of honest work. Mostly honest work, anyway. Taking a sip, Weaver savors it for a moment, letting the flavor sit on her tongue before swallowing.
“Sweet,” she says, “though not too sweet. I do like it, and I think I can picture what you describe in the taste.” It is a high compliment from Weaver, as good as saying ‘you are damn good at your job’, though Weaver is not always so direct with compliments. She puts the glass down so Raza can fill it. “Halo born and raised. It’s a little warm here.”
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
Quote by Charles Dickens
