The problem with the world is that everyone is a few drinks behind
The literal and figurative fire comes from her mother, who wielded inferno’s with ease. Much of Weaver comes from her mother - her looks, her wild attitude, a burning passion for life. Her mother had more patience than Weaver, a thing she imagines she can thank her wayward father for. There were pieces of John in her too, added by nurture rather than nature. The ability to sit in the Tundra for hours and wait for prey quietly, the easy understanding that Weaver can find with so many. Those were John, through and through.
”We were close to the Citadel,” she says, letting go of her shirt and pulling her braid back in place over the scar. Why she still did that, she couldn’t honestly say. There was no point to it, besides her own comfort. ”It’s rare to find an ursur so close, and I can only assume it was thrown off by the storm. Honestly, we should have been fine. We should have made it back into the Citadel and home without incident, and maybe we both let our guards down just a hair. Which is all it takes, here.” She takes another sip of her drink, finding the glass nearly empty, and somehow there wasn’t enough left to revisit that day.
Still, she does it anyway. ”The ursur came out of nowhere. Couldn’t see it through the storm. It came for me, and I couldn’t get to a weapon in time. Caught me in the chest as Erebor charged it. He was a mage, and a good one at that. How it killed him, I will never know for sure. I know he killed the ursur too, or I’d be dead. But still, it got him all the same.” He’d been too good to die that day, too young and full of promise. He deserved to live. ”Someone must have heard. Some people dragged me back to town nearly dead, and thankfully we had decent enough healers. Still, it was touch and go for a while.”
She remembers so little of what happened. The story is little more than shattered fragments at this point. She remembers the blood though, the way it gushed from the wound in her chest. She remembers how red her hands were, clutched against her chest for as long as she could manage. ”Korbin burned my brother alone. They didn’t wait for me, because honestly, they didn’t think I’d live. I remember his face too, every time I came to. He was always there, so fucking scared. It’s a fear he has never managed to shake.” Where Weaver lives because Erebor cannot, Korbin fears because he’d almost lost it all in the blink of an eye.
”We were close to the Citadel,” she says, letting go of her shirt and pulling her braid back in place over the scar. Why she still did that, she couldn’t honestly say. There was no point to it, besides her own comfort. ”It’s rare to find an ursur so close, and I can only assume it was thrown off by the storm. Honestly, we should have been fine. We should have made it back into the Citadel and home without incident, and maybe we both let our guards down just a hair. Which is all it takes, here.” She takes another sip of her drink, finding the glass nearly empty, and somehow there wasn’t enough left to revisit that day.
Still, she does it anyway. ”The ursur came out of nowhere. Couldn’t see it through the storm. It came for me, and I couldn’t get to a weapon in time. Caught me in the chest as Erebor charged it. He was a mage, and a good one at that. How it killed him, I will never know for sure. I know he killed the ursur too, or I’d be dead. But still, it got him all the same.” He’d been too good to die that day, too young and full of promise. He deserved to live. ”Someone must have heard. Some people dragged me back to town nearly dead, and thankfully we had decent enough healers. Still, it was touch and go for a while.”
She remembers so little of what happened. The story is little more than shattered fragments at this point. She remembers the blood though, the way it gushed from the wound in her chest. She remembers how red her hands were, clutched against her chest for as long as she could manage. ”Korbin burned my brother alone. They didn’t wait for me, because honestly, they didn’t think I’d live. I remember his face too, every time I came to. He was always there, so fucking scared. It’s a fear he has never managed to shake.” Where Weaver lives because Erebor cannot, Korbin fears because he’d almost lost it all in the blink of an eye.
Weaver
