Weaver likes the cavalier way the other woman responds, the broad gesture above the carcass, the crooked smile. She notes the way the woman takes her in, appraising what she can see above the layers of clothing keeping Weaver warm. Weaver lets her, leaving her stance open rather than closed. Weaver has secrets, of a sort, but only because they hurt in the sort of way Weaver prefers not to hurt. It is one thing to bleed, one thing to feel the bite of a blade. It is another entirely to hurt in the way you cannot see. The Ursur tusk was the least of the pain she’d felt that day. There is little else about Weaver that is not an open book though. When you live in a town as small as Halo, you get used to everyone knowing everything.
“A gift,” she says, the topic of conversation falling on the scythe on her back. It’s an unusual weapon, one Weaver did not pick for herself. One day it was not there, and the next it was. “From my mother. She always liked things to be unorthodox.” She has no idea how it was made, and so cannot answer the question any better than that. It was made for her though, because it fits her. It is the right size for her height, the right weight for her muscles, the right balance for her movements. She hunts with traps and fights with knives, usually, but she can wield the scythe almost as well. It has some advantages, being longer than the average sword and double edged, used to hook or slice rather than simply slice. Still, it wasn’t always the most practical choice either.
Weaver does not miss the fact that the woman did not answer her question. So an undecided price, then, it seems. Perhaps a usual trade is not what this woman wants, but then again, this woman doesn’t seem the type to need someone else to give her much of anything other than perhaps information. Or entertainment. Everyone needed entertainment. It was distraction after all, and distraction was what they all needed. She knew little of the rest of Caido, but she suspected it was just another version of hell.
“Are you simply here with a gift for the locals? If so, you have found the most fun local possible, so it is your lucky day. What is it you hope to find here in Halo? Snow? We can spare some.” She gestures with her hands to the snow covering everything around them. The last part, of course, is a joke and her tone makes the clear. But the offer is not a joke. Weaver could play tour guide. That seemed like a worthwhile trade for a kill that could feed her for the foreseeable future.
“A gift,” she says, the topic of conversation falling on the scythe on her back. It’s an unusual weapon, one Weaver did not pick for herself. One day it was not there, and the next it was. “From my mother. She always liked things to be unorthodox.” She has no idea how it was made, and so cannot answer the question any better than that. It was made for her though, because it fits her. It is the right size for her height, the right weight for her muscles, the right balance for her movements. She hunts with traps and fights with knives, usually, but she can wield the scythe almost as well. It has some advantages, being longer than the average sword and double edged, used to hook or slice rather than simply slice. Still, it wasn’t always the most practical choice either.
Weaver does not miss the fact that the woman did not answer her question. So an undecided price, then, it seems. Perhaps a usual trade is not what this woman wants, but then again, this woman doesn’t seem the type to need someone else to give her much of anything other than perhaps information. Or entertainment. Everyone needed entertainment. It was distraction after all, and distraction was what they all needed. She knew little of the rest of Caido, but she suspected it was just another version of hell.
“Are you simply here with a gift for the locals? If so, you have found the most fun local possible, so it is your lucky day. What is it you hope to find here in Halo? Snow? We can spare some.” She gestures with her hands to the snow covering everything around them. The last part, of course, is a joke and her tone makes the clear. But the offer is not a joke. Weaver could play tour guide. That seemed like a worthwhile trade for a kill that could feed her for the foreseeable future.
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
Quote by Charles Dickens
