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;
It’s in hours like these that she is thankful for the cold resistance. The hunts before it had been brutal, perched on a rock as she is now, buried in her cloak trying to sit still against the bitter wind. Now though? Now the only similarity is that she is perched on her usual rock, scythe in hand, waiting. The wind bites at her skin, but she hardly feels it. She’s not a fool, and she’ll still wearing thick layers and gloves, not wanting to find out if the magic protects against frostbite, but it makes the wait far more bearable. Though it does not make the wait any less boring. There is far too much quiet time to simply think, which is perhaps the last thing she wants to be doing these days.
Eventually though she hears noise, the crunching of hooves against snow. A number of them, running in her direction. Clever Noah, she thinks with a grin, standing up and slipping behind a larger rock to slightly conceal herself. The herd comes down the mountain, led by a familiar reindeer. Weaver lets the first few in the herd pass before throwing up a wall of fire to cut off a handful of them toward the rear. The veer away, heading right toward Weaver and her waiting scythe.
It is all too easy, really. She slices the neck of the first one almost cleanly as it comes charging toward her. It falls into the snow, the others scrambling to get around their fallen brethren. She swipes again, taking a second down to the snow, though the kill is not so clean this time. The few others nearby keep running, away away, but she is pleased with the two she’d gotten. There is no real need to be greedy or wasteful. She pulls out a knife from her belt and puts the second luxere out of its misery with a quick cut, and then looks up to see where Noah might be now.
Eventually though she hears noise, the crunching of hooves against snow. A number of them, running in her direction. Clever Noah, she thinks with a grin, standing up and slipping behind a larger rock to slightly conceal herself. The herd comes down the mountain, led by a familiar reindeer. Weaver lets the first few in the herd pass before throwing up a wall of fire to cut off a handful of them toward the rear. The veer away, heading right toward Weaver and her waiting scythe.
It is all too easy, really. She slices the neck of the first one almost cleanly as it comes charging toward her. It falls into the snow, the others scrambling to get around their fallen brethren. She swipes again, taking a second down to the snow, though the kill is not so clean this time. The few others nearby keep running, away away, but she is pleased with the two she’d gotten. There is no real need to be greedy or wasteful. She pulls out a knife from her belt and puts the second luxere out of its misery with a quick cut, and then looks up to see where Noah might be now.
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.
