Weaver props herself up on her elbows with a slight chuckle. ”Loren? Telling someone else not to be reckless?” she asks, recalling their conversation in the tavern about the lectures he received from others giving similar advice. Always easier to say than do. ”You do you, girl. Just don’t be an idiot about it. And in the end, you’ll figure out where you want to be.” Because the truth was they all longed for stability. Even Weaver, with the fire in her veins, was excited for a simple life tending a bar and collecting secrets. ”Also, boys tend to come back to the girls that don’t chase them.” She gives Maea a wink, and just a little girly advice. Boys were one thing Weaver knew a bit about.
Maea talks of Delphia. Her spirits? Well, that made sense, being a child of Mort and all. Weaver tries not to think too hard about it though and simply nods. ”She sounds like my kind of woman,” she says, because Weaver doesn’t care about mincing words or keeping people happy. She speaks the truth, usually, regardless of what that does to someone’s feelings. In her opinion, it is usually better to hear a painful truth than a pretty lie.
Weaver chuckles slightly at being called sweetling, and as Maea finishes, she sits up. ”We should probably go, unless you actually want to sleep out here,” she says, nodding to the pile of things Maea had come with. ”I admit, I do not.” She stands, swinging her scythe onto her back again and, with a careful thought, smothering the small, dwindling fire. It goes out with shocking ease, and Weaver smiles brightly for a moment before offering a hand to Maea, if she hasn’t already gotten up. ”Shall we?
Maea talks of Delphia. Her spirits? Well, that made sense, being a child of Mort and all. Weaver tries not to think too hard about it though and simply nods. ”She sounds like my kind of woman,” she says, because Weaver doesn’t care about mincing words or keeping people happy. She speaks the truth, usually, regardless of what that does to someone’s feelings. In her opinion, it is usually better to hear a painful truth than a pretty lie.
Weaver chuckles slightly at being called sweetling, and as Maea finishes, she sits up. ”We should probably go, unless you actually want to sleep out here,” she says, nodding to the pile of things Maea had come with. ”I admit, I do not.” She stands, swinging her scythe onto her back again and, with a careful thought, smothering the small, dwindling fire. It goes out with shocking ease, and Weaver smiles brightly for a moment before offering a hand to Maea, if she hasn’t already gotten up. ”Shall we?
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
Quote by Charles Dickens
