what colour is the bear?


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#1
"Shut yer fuckin' mouth and just get her wouldja."

"Me? You're the one who bleedin' saw it."

"Would you just fookin' go already?" Going to find Weaver was the safest decision, not that the old guard would say so. Running into town screaming for Weaver, the younger guard's cloaks were already smeared with blood, making the paleness of his face all the more vibrant for the contrast.

"Warden Weaver!" He cried breathless, looking haphazardly over his shoulder every now and then as he ran unsteadily.
Weaver Hale
the Scythe
Warden of the Citadel

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#2
In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer
It doesn’t take long for word to reach her of the guard calling for Warden Weaver (would that ever sound normal?). She tosses on her cloak and scythe as she whirls out of the Kraai to find him. Was it so much to ask for a minute to herself? A minute for things to not go wrong? Yet there was always something. Always someone with a complaint or a problem.

Neron should be thanking her for taking this mess off his hands.

It doesn’t take her long to find the guard, and so slows to a stop in front of him. ”What is it?” she asks, taking in the blood and his pale face, worry growing in the pit of her stomach.
WEAVER


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#3
"Thank the gods I found ye, Wea-, er Warden..err...Madam...Scythe?" He stumbles over the words, not knowing how to address her properly. They've all been informed of the new changes in ranks since Neron was cast out, but the appropriate nomenclature hasn't filtered down to the lower and more ignorant ranks in Morgan's guard.

"There's a ...oh hells, you'll just have ter' see if fer yer'self." With Weaver at his side, the guard looks noticeably calmer. He's done his task in finding the warden, surely all will be taken care of now?

Leading her through the crowds that still wandering within the Citadel despite the cold, the man heads towards where many teams are trying to remain the gate. Such isn't an easy task of course, made all the more difficult by—

"..came outta nowhere I tells ya!"

"..how big didja say? Size o' a house?"

"Set my watch and warrant on it I will. Big as y'like, with that bitch in 'er claws!"


Weaver will have gathered by this frantic and poorly phrased conversations, that a white dragon carrying an Ursur had come to harass the builders, potentially looking to add a guard to her dinner take-away. After many arrows had been lobbed into her however, she'd dropped the Ursur like some sort of bomb, flying off into the snowstorm and leaving the bear to wreak havoc within the gates.

So it was that as Weaver and the guard arrived the blood on his coat might make more sense. Nearly 4 other guards had been killed and many more wounded by the massive beast boasting her own set of injuries from guards and dragons alike.
Weaver Hale
the Scythe
Warden of the Citadel

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#4
In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer
”Warden is fine,” she says somewhat dismissively. She’d say that Weaver is fine, but Korbin would give her a really long lecture about how she needs to keep up appearances, and he isn’t wrong. Hadn’t she done exactly that by making Neron wander around with a guard? A guard that, mind you, she is very sure he could overpower with little effort. Appearances. They were always important.

Weaver follows, curious and concerned to find out what exactly is going on that he cannot even explain. There’s a surprising amount of people out despite the cold, and she wonders if she is going to have to start ordering everyone to stay inside. Though she is fine with the cold, there are not that many like her.

The conversation catches her attention though. A dragon and an ursur. Well fuck. She gives the guard a look. ”You came for me instead of your Captain why?” Though she’s already pulling her scythe from her back and moving through the crowd. Why an ursur? Why is it always a bloody urusr? ”Move back!” she yells to the crowd nearby as she calls to her magic, lobbing a ball of fire toward the ursur, ready with her scythe to face it should her magic fail.
WEAVER


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#5
"W--w-well because of the dragon m'am, err, Warden." The guard's cheeks turn red with embarrassment, but then, he'd just been following orders. As Weaver takes charge, he sighs with relief, taking up a defensive looking position at her back. In truth, he's new to this, having volunteered only because he'd been told much of his watch would simply be helping with the gate.

The ursur is a magnificent creature, even wounded and bloody as it is. Turning golden eyes ringed with hate towards the Warden as she advances. The others fall back, calling for medics and reinforcements. "Perhaps we lure 'em out?" A voice suggests as Weaver's fire strikes the left side of the creature. Roaring, its focus entirely homed on Weaver now, the creature lunges. With tusks that are nearly a meter long, the bear bellows furiously as the singed scent of its flesh fills the air.
Weaver Hale
the Scythe
Warden of the Citadel

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#6
In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer
His answer doesn’t really help. They report to Morgan, not her. It is Morgan’s job to come get her when it is necessary, so apparently they all need a lesson on hierarchy. Besides, what is she supposed to do against a dragon? An ursur is one thing. One of her least favorite things, to be fair, but at least something she can survive. A dragon? They would need a whole lot more than some bumbling new recruits and their new Warden for such a fight.

Someone suggests luring it out, but the fire seems to do that just fine. Though does he mean out of the gates? Regardless, it is a good idea, and she whirls as the ursur charges, trying to lead it away from the Citadel and out of the gates. Her movements are too slow though and the tusk of the bear catches on her cloak. Shit. The fabric tears free as she stumbles sideways, sending another ball of fire at the ursur and slicing her scythe toward the ursur if it should charge again. She keeps moving backward, trying to lead the ursur away from her people and out of the Citadel.
WEAVER


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#7

random event


The bear indeed gives chase, spurred on by the delicious sound of its tusk tearing through the fabric of Weaver's cloak. Fire snarls towards the beast, making it dodge and dart away, its heavy paws thudding dully into the snow, golden eyes never once leaving the warden.

As Weaver runs outside of the broken gates, the creature lunges for her just as she knew it might. Rather than continuing to run, as she pivots with scythe in hand, the ursur leaps through the air. Paws extending and tusks aiming for her heart and lungs, time seems to slow then as life and death fall steadily into the hands of physics. The swing of Weaver's blade versus the trajectory and forward momentum of the bear. The length of its tusks versus the arc of her blade. None watching have the savvy to predict the outcome of course, not until it happens of course.

Blood sprays in a warm crescent that steams into the frosty air. Lips curl into a snarl of pain, but there is no scream to follow, for there is no throat to make such a sound. Blood freckles Weaver's face and soaks her torn cloak as her blade sings through the thick skin of the ursur, its tusks falling short of her chest by no more than an inch. Down the creature falls, its face an expression of silent hate even as its lifeblood drained in a steady crimson stream from its neck.

From behind the gates, cheers erupt steadily as Weaver's name is chanted from the lips of those assembled. Set against the bleak vista that stretches out long behind her, Weaver is not more than a wisp of determination against all that Halo has to offer. Still, she stands tall. She stands victorious.

From behind the Warden, great white wings appear. The sound of their downward motion is a groan in the wake of Weaver's victory—or perhaps the groan comes from the guards instead. The dragon, clever thing that it is, had not simply tossed its meal away and fled. Instead, it hoped to secure for itself an appetizer, and indeed it has done so. Talons covered in ice, pierce through Weaver like a hot knife through snow. Before the guards can do more than draw in their surprised gasps, the dragon has picked up the ursur as well, its powerful wings easily lifting the weight of its meal. A thousand arrows could not bring such a creature down, and though arrows and magic are levied its way, it disappears into the frosty morning with a shocking lack of pomp or circumstance.

Victory falls instantly to devastation, and back by the gates, many of the guards are throwing up their breakfasts.
Weaver Hale
the Scythe
Warden of the Citadel

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#8
In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer
The ursur follows her, and though Weaver loves a good fight, she doesn’t love this. She doesn’t long to kill even if the creature she is killing longs for it. But still, she was born and bred for this, and though her heart hammers in her chest, she knows how to fight. The ursur leaps, and there is something so gods awfully familiar about this moment, and she wonders if fate has finally decided to catch up to her. Relief is not a strong enough word for what she feels as her scythe swipes through the ursur’s neck. Even as hot, sticky blood coats her, Weaver doesn’t care, because there is cheering and something satisfying about the sight of the ursur dead at her feet.

Fate is funny though. In the end, Weaver has always been living on borrowed time.

She can hear the wings, but she never sees them. Hadn’t someone once told her that they wanted to see a white dragon? She knows what it is, knows in that split second that the dragon had only ever been waiting. Weaver doesn’t even have time to turn, doesn’t even have a chance to see what will kill her. If there is pain, it is so brief Weaver never feels it. She feels only the blood that pours down her, the blood that covers her hands as it did all those years ago when the ursur pierced her chest. Fate has a way of catching up with you.

At least it is quick. She does not bleed out on the snow with time to mourn the life she will not get to live, the people she will never see again. She does not think of Sunjata or the Kraai, does not hope that there will be some ink on his skin for her. She does not think of Halo, but then again, maybe she would not have, for she died protecting it and perhaps she always knew that would be her fate. She does not think of Loren, or how she never got a chance to love him. She might have, if they’d been granted time. She does not get a chance to remember how fiercely he’d insisted on a happy ending, or even hope that he would one day find it with someone other than her (Could she even hope that? Maybe from the next realm, but not from this one). She does not think of Korbin either, and this is the true mercy. She does not have time to think of her brother, left alone. Still, if she had gotten to say goodbye, she would have told him to live. She would have told him she’d be waiting for him, but gods, for him not to rush.

Instead, she has only time to remember that day in the Tundra with Erebor, her hands sticky with her own blood. She has time to remember only how he died for her, and now, that it was her turn to die for others.

I’m coming, brother.
WEAVER


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