if it doesn't burn a little
Normally she seeks the shrine of the old gods, bringing a candle for a brother and asking Mort or Ludo how he’s doing. Strange, perhaps, that she never comes to honor her mother or stepfather, yet she suspects they do not wish for it. Straia certainly would not wish to be mourned. It is her brother that she cannot let go of, though. Perhaps she struggles because his death was given for her life. It should have been her that killed that day, not him. He could have escaped, could have run, could have left her to the ursur when she’d been nearly dead anyway.
This time of year, she always ventures into the Tundra. Not that this is unusual for her, for she hunts here plenty, has lived her life braving the wasteland of the Tundra outside the Citadel. Yet normally she comes with a better purpose and plan. But during Leafchange she comes only for Erebor, to the spot near enough to where they’d been attacked that day. It is not far from town, and one a clear day she can see Snowcloak and the Citadel with ease. Today is cloudy and she can see only a hint of their small city, though there’s no threat of a storm.
Weaver lights a fire, bringing a bit of wood to keep it burning without using all her energy to keep it alive. One log becomes a seat, and a few feed the flames, though she uses her magic to coax the fire to a roaring flame. She grabs a bit of the fire with her magic, tracing it through the air in swirls and patterns. ”If you could see me now, brother. I learned this by stealing a bell from around an ursurs neck, and pissing off the teacher. So I guess only some things have changed.” She says, realizing she is talking to herself, but perhaps the dead hear them anyway.
This time of year, she always ventures into the Tundra. Not that this is unusual for her, for she hunts here plenty, has lived her life braving the wasteland of the Tundra outside the Citadel. Yet normally she comes with a better purpose and plan. But during Leafchange she comes only for Erebor, to the spot near enough to where they’d been attacked that day. It is not far from town, and one a clear day she can see Snowcloak and the Citadel with ease. Today is cloudy and she can see only a hint of their small city, though there’s no threat of a storm.
Weaver lights a fire, bringing a bit of wood to keep it burning without using all her energy to keep it alive. One log becomes a seat, and a few feed the flames, though she uses her magic to coax the fire to a roaring flame. She grabs a bit of the fire with her magic, tracing it through the air in swirls and patterns. ”If you could see me now, brother. I learned this by stealing a bell from around an ursurs neck, and pissing off the teacher. So I guess only some things have changed.” She says, realizing she is talking to herself, but perhaps the dead hear them anyway.
-- weaver
then what's the point in playing with fire?
