Personal Quest [se] promise me that you'll leave the light on
lantern making PQ
Weaver Hale
the Scythe
Warden of the Citadel

Age: 33 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: Halo
Level: 4 - Strg: 10 - Dext: 13 - Endr: 21 - Luck: 22 - Int:
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#15
if it doesn't burn a little
The response to her home is...not quite what she usually gets. Something unspoken passes between her and Deimos, and Weaver wonders exactly what that ‘oh’ is for. It might be best that she doesn’t know, though. As it is, she is still uncertain about all these outsiders coming into Halo and pretending like they know a damn thing about a land that tries to kill you daily. Weaver has grown up there, and her respect for the land is healthy and well earned. Others come in feeling far too invincible, or so it seems.

Weaver nods as Amalia answers, looking up and around the bakery appreciatively. What a luxury, something as beautiful as this, passed down through the generations. How unusual for something to survive so long in this place. Before she can say anything though, there’s another question, and it’s only because she’s talking to the Shield of Safrin that Weaver manages not to snort in response.

”I wouldn’t know,” she says, doing her best to keep the bitterness from her voice, because it is not Amalia’s fault. ”They have never been with me.” Weaver shrugs, as if it’s not a big deal, and she’s pretty good at pretending it’s not when she wants to. She doesn’t always want to, but today she tries to remember to be polite. Besides, she just really isn’t sure her and The Shield of Safrin will share the same view of the gods.

Weaver shifts her attention back to the lantern, which has turned out unusually well. Her art skills are improving, perhaps, or she’s just really damn lucky today. Maybe it’s the cookie. A good luck cookie. Finishing up, Weaver collects and candle, working to secure it into the lantern. Maybe this year her brother would be proud of the lantern for him. Perhaps she ought to screw it up on purpose, just a little bit. She can’t be too good to her siblings, dead or alive, now can she?

-- weaver

then what's the point in playing with fire?
Photo by Allef Vinicius | Quote by Bridgett Devoue
Seiji Okura
Musician

Age: 32 | Height: 5'7" | Race: Accepted | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Hollowed Grounds
Level: 2 - Strg: 10 - Dext: 25 - Endr: 12 - Luck: 10 - Int:
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#16
S E I J I
Halo. The word is unfamiliar. Seiji tilts his head as Weaver’s question redirects toward him. Looking up, he blinks at her, an embarrassed simper creasing his mouth. “Somewhere else,” he answers. “I am not sure where. But I live here, now.” Why does saying so fill him with sorrow? He turns his attention once more to the lantern, delicate brush strokes now framing the glass in place of rust and soot. Here and there, he can see the mistakes, the strokes too broad or too hurried, and he frowns slightly down at it. Perhaps he needs practice.

As he stands to examine the selection of candles, Seiji takes in this talk of old gods and unfamiliar places, though he has nothing to add. He could sit all day in the corner of a room somewhere and soak up conversations like this. He should return to the library, or the Loreseekers’ home. He would be welcome there, he knows. The brief embarrassment of having gone so long without visiting would fade in a matter of minutes.

“What was your brother’s name?” he asks, gently. It is a risky question — perhaps she does not wish to speak of it. But she brought it up, so he offers her this chance to say more. To maybe teach him more of Halo, too, in the telling. Seiji’s gaze is attentive as he choose a candle and returns to his seat, where he fits it into the base behind a glass door. Crude, he thinks, but maybe that doesn’t matter. Maybe the dead care more for the effort than the outcome.

Life would be kind if it were like that.
The rain is full
of ghosts tonight
Amalia Chandrakant
the Archangel
Baker

Age: 29 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Demi-god | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: Stormbreak
Level: 5 - Strg: 49 - Dext: 45 - Endr: 52 - Luck: 49 - Int:
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#17

She supposes she shouldn't be disappointed or surprised to hear that the Old Ones remain quiet even outside the barrier, but there's a part of her that's sad to hear it. She'd hoped that now she might learn more of Mort and Vi and Rae, but it seems their silence was not based entirely on the presence of a bubble.

Though it makes her hurt for those in Halo and Torchline, without even the heralds to turn to. "I'm sorry," the Shield says softly, sincerely to Weaver, her dark eyes soft and empathetic. Then she returns to her work, listening to the conversation as it continues, focusing in on her own work.

The candle she chooses is a small one, but when it's placed in the lantern the whole thing suddenly feels complete. Similarly, too, are all the others: missteps coming together in those final moments of dedication to form beautiful creations, flawed as their creators but more perfect for all that. Amalia looks between them with a smile, bittersweet and nostalgic but proud nonetheless. "They're perfect," she says softly. "Ludo will be glad."

Rising up, she places her lantern delicately on the countertop to dry before retrieving the green and gold pair. Pushing a lock of hair behind her ear, she looks around the group. "Um... if you want to make more, or add anything, or just hang around you're welcome to." Settling back down at the table the Shield sets about finishing her last two lanterns, unsure of who will stay and who will go.



Yay we all made beautiful lanterns, good job team!
You're welcome to have your character stick around or leave with their lantern. Thanks for participating <3
Amalia
Her eyes, they know too much.
She'll treat you like somebody but you just can't touch.
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
Warden of Halo / Guildmaster

Age: 33 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Hybrid | Nationality: Outlander | Citizenship: Halo
Level: 14 - Strg: 72 - Dext: 72 - Endr: 73 - Luck: 80 - Int: 3
BELIAL - Mythical - Peryton (Blend) ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
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#18
We're lost in the space between
who we are and all that we're trying to be

Weaver’s predilections towards the gods likely amounted to the same old Abandoned lines: born with magic, and thus relegated to naught in their eyes. His experiences had been much of the latter before Attuning – and he wondered how much it mattered now. That faith in himself, in those around him, still far outweighed his tendencies to ask for consul from deities. Because anytime he’d tried, he’d failed. And after a while, one found solutions for their problems, to their trials, to their tribulations, without a celestial being’s authority. To find himself in Safrin’s presence always made him apprehensive for a collective amount of reasons; so he nodded in Weaver’s direction, understanding, comprehending, the subject at hand.

Then he went back to his work: to orchestrating something of the shambles, the mess, the notion of them being perfect still a doubt in his mind. His parents deserved something other than this concoction, and he wished he could’ve done it in magic, that he could’ve brought forth the whittled carvings in his mind, the blaze of fire spiraling up the sides, the woven water springing from edges. But something was off with his enchantments too, and the frustration was all the more ridiculous. Thereafter, the Sword settled for somehow contorting, creating, a series of little glass surfaces, veneer, tiny, minute in the multitude, the magnitude, of things he used to be able to spring to life: placing them along the framework, the foundations, striving to bring an essence of what they’d been. How they’d shaped him, how they’d raised him.

His head tilted, a softened sigh fringing on the boundaries of his breath; staying amongst the chatter, the bakery, and attempting to do better; snatching a scone to munch on while he scraped along the vestiges of worlds tilted and lost.

DEIMOS
Stop trying to show how to save our souls
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
Weaver Hale
the Scythe
Warden of the Citadel

Age: 33 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: Halo
Level: 4 - Strg: 10 - Dext: 13 - Endr: 21 - Luck: 22 - Int:
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#19
if it doesn't burn a little
Maybe the Old Gods showed up for those not like her, but they did not show up for the likes of her. And particularly, they simply did not show up for her. She has met other Abandoned who have at least met a herald on occasion, have been given some small sliver of attention. Weaver has never been given even that. Amalia’s sorry is heartfelt, and Weaver simply nods in her direction. Perhaps Amalia feels for her given that she knows what it is like to be highly favored, or perhaps she’s simply sorry because she hoped for a different answer. In the end, Weaver doesn’t hold either against her. She meets Deimos’s eyes as he nods at her, understanding as Amalia perhaps does not.

One lantern done, Weaver stands and grabs a scone, giving Deimos a look as if she might fight him for them. It is a joke, of course, the same type of look she would have offered Erebor. They are similar, in many ways, Deimos and her brother, and she can’t help but treat her new friend a bit as she would have treated her older brother. Her attention turns to Seiji’s question as she gathers supplies to make another lantern, wanting to honor her mother and step-father as well. They all deserved to be remembered.

”Erebor,” she offers, unafraid of the topic. ”He was a few years older than me. Taught me to hunt.” Her voice is nostalgic, though not sad. She sits back down and begins to construct another lantern, a simple square base of word and the rest made of wire to look like a flame. Around that she will add red tissue, painting in the orange, yellow and white details of a fire. ”I imagine he is watching me, shaking his head every time I do something stupid. I imagine they are all watching us, really.” It may not be true, but it was a comforting daydream nonetheless.

-- weaver

then what's the point in playing with fire?
Photo by Allef Vinicius | Quote by Bridgett Devoue
Amalia Chandrakant
the Archangel
Baker

Age: 29 | Height: 5'6 | Race: Demi-god | Nationality: Natural | Citizenship: Stormbreak
Level: 5 - Strg: 49 - Dext: 45 - Endr: 52 - Luck: 49 - Int:
JYOTI - Mythical - Starwhale (Humpback)
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#20

Amalia finishes her lanterns quietly, engaging in conversation when invited, listening and observing more. When at last the final individual leaves, well-made light in tow, and she and Deimos are left alone, she leans against his side and exhales, tilting her face up to smile at him.

"Thank you for helping with this. Let's clean up, then we can head home."

{fin}

Amalia
Her eyes, they know too much.
She'll treat you like somebody but you just can't touch.


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