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;
Luxere are not all that mythical to them, particularly not Halovians. Magic is so ingrained in their lives that it becomes less magical, in a way. The glowing, mysterious luxere are just another animal, another potential source of food. ”You could all just stay inside, you know,” she says. It seems a vast amount of effort to collect luxere and keep them with you in order to go outside. It is really not that hard to just stay in for one week. There are blizzards that last longer in Halo.
He continues to move the flames, and the effort with which he can hold the magic is perhaps the most impressive thing. It still tires her quickly to create flames. It is vastly easier to take existing fire and manipulate it, though she can move much larger amounts with relative ease now. It is the actual creation that still exhausts her, and so she limits how often she does it. She can pluck from Deimos again, though for now she just watches, learning what she may be able to one day do.
”I rather liked her methods,” Weaver says, something nostalgic but happy in her voice. Her mother was taken from them when Weaver was still young, but she remembers enough, and Erebor had taken over much of her training after. Deimos reminds her of her brother, a man not of words but of action, far more controlled than Weaver would ever be. Still, he’d taught her where her mother left off, never coddling, but letting his sister figure out how to survive. ”My older brother trained me when she disappeared. He was much like you, though he was more vocal about my regular disappointments.”
He continues to move the flames, and the effort with which he can hold the magic is perhaps the most impressive thing. It still tires her quickly to create flames. It is vastly easier to take existing fire and manipulate it, though she can move much larger amounts with relative ease now. It is the actual creation that still exhausts her, and so she limits how often she does it. She can pluck from Deimos again, though for now she just watches, learning what she may be able to one day do.
”I rather liked her methods,” Weaver says, something nostalgic but happy in her voice. Her mother was taken from them when Weaver was still young, but she remembers enough, and Erebor had taken over much of her training after. Deimos reminds her of her brother, a man not of words but of action, far more controlled than Weaver would ever be. Still, he’d taught her where her mother left off, never coddling, but letting his sister figure out how to survive. ”My older brother trained me when she disappeared. He was much like you, though he was more vocal about my regular disappointments.”
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.
