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01-06-2017, 10:52 AM
Ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies
It does not take long before the sounds and smells of other equines finds her. There is one smell that is particularly strong though. Foreign, as everything here is foreign, but close. Weaver doesn’t seek the source though. She never looks for anything that does not look for her. Chasing is nothing something she does. Not obviously, anyway. Chasing something some obviously is weakness. It lets you enemies know just what you want, and just how to hurt you. Yes, Weaver would like to meet someone else in this new place, to learn where she is and what this place can offer. But she will not grovel for it.
The voice finds her though, seeks her. A strange greeting, and she wonders if this is normal of all in this land. Behold, stranger, the sweet voice begins, and now Weaver turns those amber eyes to find the source of the voice as it continues. Helovia. The other mare names the place as she emerges from the trees, a pale angel or demon, Weaver isn’t sure. An upside down cross mars her strange, colorless eyes. It is a mark the girl does not know, but still, it brings a bit of a grin to her face. A sly, mischievous, pleased little smile.
She turns herself to fully face this pale mare, who doesn’t technically introduce herself but does, in a way. “Does Beloved always refer to herself in the third person?” she asks in return. “And is she always so certain?” But in this case, Beloved should be certain. Weaver has nowhere else to go, and even if she did, she’d likely follow this strange mare anyway, with the cross on her eye.
“Weaver,” she offers. “I do. Where is there to seek refuge in this place?” And why should I go? But she does not ask that. Not yet. Beggar’s can’t be choosers.
The voice finds her though, seeks her. A strange greeting, and she wonders if this is normal of all in this land. Behold, stranger, the sweet voice begins, and now Weaver turns those amber eyes to find the source of the voice as it continues. Helovia. The other mare names the place as she emerges from the trees, a pale angel or demon, Weaver isn’t sure. An upside down cross mars her strange, colorless eyes. It is a mark the girl does not know, but still, it brings a bit of a grin to her face. A sly, mischievous, pleased little smile.
She turns herself to fully face this pale mare, who doesn’t technically introduce herself but does, in a way. “Does Beloved always refer to herself in the third person?” she asks in return. “And is she always so certain?” But in this case, Beloved should be certain. Weaver has nowhere else to go, and even if she did, she’d likely follow this strange mare anyway, with the cross on her eye.
“Weaver,” she offers. “I do. Where is there to seek refuge in this place?” And why should I go? But she does not ask that. Not yet. Beggar’s can’t be choosers.
weaver
@Beloved
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Magic use/power playing is okay, but check before serious injury/death
Image by AmoretteRose
