It’s not dying I’m afraid of
It may be her hunt, but she knows as much about banshee’s as Loren does. Though she may understand hunting better, there’s probably enough of a significant difference between hunting hares and hunting mythical creatures that her knowledge doesn’t much matter. She’s about to agree with him, her head halfway through a nod that he should scout ahead, when she hears something.
Weaver stops walking rather abruptly, putting a hand in the air as if to say ‘stop’. She can hear something, and she looks to Loren. ”You got some animal hearing in that bag of tricks?” she says in a whisper. They may not need it though, because some part of her is drawn to the sound, and she has to throw up every mental wall she has to remember her task.
”We should split up slightly. See if you can draw it’s attention, and maybe I can sneak up.” Her voice remains a whisper, and though they have some space to go to actually find the thing, she’d rather give the suggestions now while they are far enough away and have time. She veers off from him, keeping Loren in her sights as best she can, but leaving space between them. Then quietly, scythe ready and held close against her chest, she creeps through the woods toward the riverbank and the sound of that song.
Weaver stops walking rather abruptly, putting a hand in the air as if to say ‘stop’. She can hear something, and she looks to Loren. ”You got some animal hearing in that bag of tricks?” she says in a whisper. They may not need it though, because some part of her is drawn to the sound, and she has to throw up every mental wall she has to remember her task.
”We should split up slightly. See if you can draw it’s attention, and maybe I can sneak up.” Her voice remains a whisper, and though they have some space to go to actually find the thing, she’d rather give the suggestions now while they are far enough away and have time. She veers off from him, keeping Loren in her sights as best she can, but leaving space between them. Then quietly, scythe ready and held close against her chest, she creeps through the woods toward the riverbank and the sound of that song.
weaver
it’s dying without ever having lived
