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;
Weaver only has a few walls. She is select and careful about them, keeping out prying eyes from the things they should not see. Though mostly, she is open. Open and honest, and it makes her easy to trust even when perhaps she should not be trusted. Though she does not see the point in hiding the truth, at least not the story of it. It’s the emotions behind those stories that she is far more careful with, revealing what cannot be used against her so easily. Other than her love for her brother, but there is no point in hiding that. All anyone needs to do is ask someone in Halo of the Hale siblings, and they will learn the truth. Honestly, all anyone needs to do is ask most any question of Weaver’s past in Halo, and they will learn the truth. That is the thing about small towns; there are no secrets. It is vastly easier to just not bother with them in the first place.
The fire continues to burn as he speaks of the world opening more. ”I wonder what else we will find. I have heard stories of places, of some long-lost Caido, though I do not know what will be true now. Even Halo is not as it once was, or so they say. Though whatever Halo was has been lost to history.” She shrugs slightly, watching the draconic battle rage before him, still twirling a small piece of his fire lazily in the air before her. It comes to hover, shaped into a tiny little dragon, as if a child watching its parents fight. ”What of your family?” she asks, the question vague enough to leave room for him to give only the pieces he so wished.
The fire continues to burn as he speaks of the world opening more. ”I wonder what else we will find. I have heard stories of places, of some long-lost Caido, though I do not know what will be true now. Even Halo is not as it once was, or so they say. Though whatever Halo was has been lost to history.” She shrugs slightly, watching the draconic battle rage before him, still twirling a small piece of his fire lazily in the air before her. It comes to hover, shaped into a tiny little dragon, as if a child watching its parents fight. ”What of your family?” she asks, the question vague enough to leave room for him to give only the pieces he so wished.
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.
