The problem with the world is that everyone is a few drinks behind
”Fine, she huffs, though she doesn’t actually mind. It doesn’t particularly matter to her where she sleeps, and she’s just as content here, in a nest of furs on the floor, as she is at home. Korbin flits into her mind again, though her sense of duty to him has been waning with his ever increasing misery, and she decides she just doesn’t care. It's hardly the first time she hasn’t stumbled home until morning. She starts removing her own layers, leaving her undershirt and her pants in place and tossing the rest of the clothes into a pile nearby. She snags a pillow from the couch. ”You have to at least share a pillow,” she says, plopping it into her lap for now.
She listens as he explains both Loren and Deimos, giving little more than a nod, her fingers lingering on the scars as he talks. She could tell him fighting while drunk is stupid, but then again, it sounds like something she’d be happy to do. She could tell him he didn’t deserve the scar from Deimos, but maybe he did. Sometimes the physical pain helped, and whether they deserved it or not was irrelevant.
She nods at the wings, remembering that bit from his earlier story. Then she listens to the rest, the one that will forever point forward for his twice dead guide. There would be another life for them, in Mort’s realm, perhaps. The flaming arrow too for Lusea, and finally one half of the whole for Safrin. She’d never know what god he prefered, though now she does. It makes sense, given what he is. Safrin seems like a goddess Weaver is unlikely to meet though, given what she is.
Weaver shifts, turning around in her nest of furs and pulls the undershirt up, revealing all three birds amid various scars and muscles. They are each about the size of two hands, starting from her mid-back, the third nearly flying off her shoulder. ”Father, mother, brother,” she says. He’s seen pieces of the one on her shoulder, which she’d added after Erebor’s death, but she’s never actually shown him the whole thing. It is not the most easy thing to put on full display, but of course, they were never meant for anyone else but her really. She lets her shirt fall back into place after he’s had the chance to look, spinning back around to face him. Less on her skin, but still, she carried her own story.
He reaches out to tug her onto the way too small couch with him, but she finds herself obliging. Certainly the booze has something to do with it, though it’s easy too, like it’s right in the sort of way that comes without any expectations or strings or feelings past being friends. Drunk friends, yes, but friends all the same. ”You get used to it, eventually,” she says of the cold, wiggling into what free space there is, her body pressed against his. There’s no other option, though she doesn’t mind. He radiates warmth, and they don’t actually need the fire save that she likes it. ”What shifts do you have? I’ve only seen the horned thing and your feathery arms.”
She listens as he explains both Loren and Deimos, giving little more than a nod, her fingers lingering on the scars as he talks. She could tell him fighting while drunk is stupid, but then again, it sounds like something she’d be happy to do. She could tell him he didn’t deserve the scar from Deimos, but maybe he did. Sometimes the physical pain helped, and whether they deserved it or not was irrelevant.
She nods at the wings, remembering that bit from his earlier story. Then she listens to the rest, the one that will forever point forward for his twice dead guide. There would be another life for them, in Mort’s realm, perhaps. The flaming arrow too for Lusea, and finally one half of the whole for Safrin. She’d never know what god he prefered, though now she does. It makes sense, given what he is. Safrin seems like a goddess Weaver is unlikely to meet though, given what she is.
Weaver shifts, turning around in her nest of furs and pulls the undershirt up, revealing all three birds amid various scars and muscles. They are each about the size of two hands, starting from her mid-back, the third nearly flying off her shoulder. ”Father, mother, brother,” she says. He’s seen pieces of the one on her shoulder, which she’d added after Erebor’s death, but she’s never actually shown him the whole thing. It is not the most easy thing to put on full display, but of course, they were never meant for anyone else but her really. She lets her shirt fall back into place after he’s had the chance to look, spinning back around to face him. Less on her skin, but still, she carried her own story.
He reaches out to tug her onto the way too small couch with him, but she finds herself obliging. Certainly the booze has something to do with it, though it’s easy too, like it’s right in the sort of way that comes without any expectations or strings or feelings past being friends. Drunk friends, yes, but friends all the same. ”You get used to it, eventually,” she says of the cold, wiggling into what free space there is, her body pressed against his. There’s no other option, though she doesn’t mind. He radiates warmth, and they don’t actually need the fire save that she likes it. ”What shifts do you have? I’ve only seen the horned thing and your feathery arms.”
Weaver
