Weaver
Time is the substance from which I am made.
Time is a river which carries me along,
but I am the river;
Time is a river which carries me along,
but I am the river;
She believed as he did, that everything could be a weapon. And yet when Zariah had explained it, she’d been so damn right that Weaver had ached with the weight of it. It was possible Zariah had heard her story and simply parrotted it back to her in some clever way, though Weaver didn’t think that was the case. What happened to her and Erebor was public knowledge, but it was an old story, and one not spoken of these days. Not like it used to be, when it had first happened. The pitying, worried looks no longer greeted her and Korbin, the hushed whispers with eyes darting their way were largely gone. The kindness that came with the pity lingered though, the town rallying together to take care of two kids when they couldn’t always provide for themselves.
Yet Zariah had pointed out something like her story all the same. A blizzard comes and exhausts you, and you are left with nothing but some basic magic and little strength. She’d created a scenario not unlike one Weaver had lived in, though there were some differences. They were not yet tired. Her brother had his mastered magic at his disposal. She had weapons and the strength to use them. Sometimes, none of it matters. Sometimes, the ursur just gets the upper hand.
He speaks only a little, as she would expect, but she doesn’t mind today. Instead she watches as he demonstrates, the ball of fire turning into an inferno above the water. She can’t quite imagine doing that yet, finding that the mastered bits of magic exhaust her quickly, but she grins at him all the same. It is something to work for, a target to hit; the ability to simply create a wall of fire and engulf the world with her. ”Impressive,” she says with a grin, stealing a bit more of his fire and calling it to her, running her hands quickly through the flames as one might run a finger through a candle. The fire collects in her lap, kept clear and away from the grasses around her or the clothing she wears, just to see if she can play with fire and not burn anything.
Yet Zariah had pointed out something like her story all the same. A blizzard comes and exhausts you, and you are left with nothing but some basic magic and little strength. She’d created a scenario not unlike one Weaver had lived in, though there were some differences. They were not yet tired. Her brother had his mastered magic at his disposal. She had weapons and the strength to use them. Sometimes, none of it matters. Sometimes, the ursur just gets the upper hand.
He speaks only a little, as she would expect, but she doesn’t mind today. Instead she watches as he demonstrates, the ball of fire turning into an inferno above the water. She can’t quite imagine doing that yet, finding that the mastered bits of magic exhaust her quickly, but she grins at him all the same. It is something to work for, a target to hit; the ability to simply create a wall of fire and engulf the world with her. ”Impressive,” she says with a grin, stealing a bit more of his fire and calling it to her, running her hands quickly through the flames as one might run a finger through a candle. The fire collects in her lap, kept clear and away from the grasses around her or the clothing she wears, just to see if she can play with fire and not burn anything.
it is a tiger that devours me, but I am the tiger;
it is a fire that consumes me, but I am the fire.
it is a fire that consumes me, but I am the fire.
