Weaver nods as Morgan says she is mourning her own father as well. It is not uncommon in Halo to find that the younger generation had lost at least one, if not two, parents. It was a hard place to live to a ripe old age, after all. Those that did were lucky as hell. Weaver simply nods, understanding in the gesture. There is no need for an empty sorry, simply the camaraderie of shared sorrow.
Weaver watches for a moment as Morgan decorates, finding the effect pretty. She turns her attention back to her own lantern, continuing with the paint and no real plan. His lantern never really fit him, because nothing really fit him. ”Disease,” she says, not minding the personal question. It doesn’t bother her to talk about lost family, to remember them. At least it kept them alive in some small way. ”It was an ugly thing, though I was young enough maybe my memory has made it worse.” Disease, blizzard, ursur. In the end, something in Halo took them all.
Weaver watches for a moment as Morgan decorates, finding the effect pretty. She turns her attention back to her own lantern, continuing with the paint and no real plan. His lantern never really fit him, because nothing really fit him. ”Disease,” she says, not minding the personal question. It doesn’t bother her to talk about lost family, to remember them. At least it kept them alive in some small way. ”It was an ugly thing, though I was young enough maybe my memory has made it worse.” Disease, blizzard, ursur. In the end, something in Halo took them all.
weaver
-- kiss you like a whiskey fire --
