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;
”Oh, I don’t doubt it,” she says, having been warned time and time again of what Zariah is capable of. ”Besides, if the first lesson is an ursur, I assume they will only get harder.” She has no idea what else Zariah might throw at them, but some part of Weaver is slightly concerned she’ll end up facing a dragon. She does not put it past the Archmage to go in search of one and drag it back to the Academy to eat a few of her students. Probably the ones that piss Zariah off, like Weaver. She is still also very of the number of times Zariah had suggested Halo could be strong, powerful, a force to be reckoned with. Weaver just doesn’t know what exactly the Archmage intends.
She watches as he shapes the inferno, doing so with an ease she has certainly not yet mastered. Simply being able to conjure a spark has her excited, yet to watch him is to realize just how much more she can learn to do. ”How long did it take you, to learn that?” she asks, curious how quickly others had progressed in their own magic. The fire, once she began, came easily. The healing magic did not come as easily, but perhaps because it was not born into her veins as the fire was.
Weaver picks up the ball of fire in her lap and throws it, hurling it back into the SparkBird from which it came. She stands, stretching slightly as she does and adjusting the scythe on her back. ”How have you been?” she adds. They were often in the same room together, but so frequently with others that she does not truly spend much time simply talking to him.
She watches as he shapes the inferno, doing so with an ease she has certainly not yet mastered. Simply being able to conjure a spark has her excited, yet to watch him is to realize just how much more she can learn to do. ”How long did it take you, to learn that?” she asks, curious how quickly others had progressed in their own magic. The fire, once she began, came easily. The healing magic did not come as easily, but perhaps because it was not born into her veins as the fire was.
Weaver picks up the ball of fire in her lap and throws it, hurling it back into the SparkBird from which it came. She stands, stretching slightly as she does and adjusting the scythe on her back. ”How have you been?” she adds. They were often in the same room together, but so frequently with others that she does not truly spend much time simply talking to him.
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.
