Rainforest Cliffs
ask no questions
This was life? This was some screwed up semblance of life, if the Rift was worse before they came. She holds nothing of Kaos and it’s only the commotion that brings her to him, though even if she hadn’t come, likely she would have heard him. Kaos’ voice is loud, his presence impossible to miss with the sheer size of it. She keeps to the shadows, keeps to the edge of the crowd which is unlike her, but her anger boils and she expects she’ll do something entirely stupid if she gets too close. She was not a gift, not a possession, not something to be toyed with so freely. Yet that wasn’t true, was it? Had she not been toyed with time and time again? Her first home ripped from her, flipped on its head, stripped of everything that had made it home. Then Helovia, consumed by Helovia. Weaver, through it all, had always been a pawn. The little girl who would die to save her home. The mare that would be shuttled into some hell-hole to save a place that did not appear remotely worth saving.
Everything he says carves more wounds through her insides. She wasn’t a guest either, but a prisoner. A prisoner of a war she’d never say was right or wrong or had, hell, even be involved in. Yet she was paying for mistakes made by others, by gods that failed their homes. Yes, Kisamoa had failed his home, and the Helovian gods had failed theirs. How does that mean they can just shuffle her about like a puppet and then have the audacity to tell her she was being rude?
She would do as he said though, because there was nothing else she could do. She’d already started, trading information with her glowing fish-friend from the Key, learning their half of the story and their corrupt gods and everything she could about this hell-hole. Knowledge is power, after all, and she knows that it would be the only thing she’d have to fight with here. Sure, she had some magic, but she couldn’t fight this place with magic. She could only hope to outsmart it one of these days.
- weaver -
and you'll be told no lies
