Green Labyrinth
ask no questions
So, shit was happening. This is the sort of life she enjoys, which may make her crazy but whatever, she already knew that. She likes being kept on her toes, but really, she just likes having something to do. Some purpose to keep her going, some excuse to fight. All she’d been doing lately was wandering around the Rift pretending to give two shits. Okay, so that’s not entirely true. She did actually care about whatever information she could come up with, because information was as powerful if not moreso than her own body or the magic that she could wield (or hope to wield, as the case may be).
Today’s ruckus comes from the Green Labyrinth, or whatever was left of it, anyway. She’s way late to the party before the sounds of others finally catch her attention. Curiosity, as it always does, gets the better of her and she turns course to find out exactly what’s going on. The commotion is…well, she’s not entirely sure. It’s different for everyone, it seems, but they all seem to cashing spirits toward someone or something or….oh. Finally, amidst the havoc she spots two red eyes and teeth, snapping at the spirits that have lived all too freely in this wasteland.
Well, well, it looks like he was trying to do something about it. Was it a he or a she or an it? Honestly, she has no idea what’s snapping at mist with red eyes, but whatever. Either she helps or she doesn’t and either way she’s stuck in this place. At least if she helps, she gets to fight. Weaver grabs the silver spike that dangles from her neck and it becomes a long, black scythe. She’d grin at the wicked looked weapon, except her mouth is full of the thing. For that matter, it’s not like she can kill a spirit, but maybe she could use the scythe to usher then toward whatever appears to be trying to eat them.
She is not, truthfully, all that interesting for vengeful spirits. No one that she cares about has died, and she cares about few anyway. Instead, the spirits that find her are faceless, countless in number, more her mother’s spirits than her own but still, Weaver had been complicit in that war as well. They don’t fool her though, don’t halt her in her tracks. She’s never really cared much for the dead – after all, she’ll see them all one day anyway. Instead she swings the scythe, trying to chase them toward Reszo, not really caring much about the end of all this and caring only that it was something to do.
- weaver -
and you'll be told no lies
