The girl welcomes her to join, and Weaver notices how her eyes catch for a moment on the blue rune on her chest. The girl does not ask though, and so Weaver does not offer an explanation. Perhaps Death’s rune is well known, and the only reason anyone eyes it is to wonder just what kind of horse Weaver really is. It’s a rather valid question. She’s died once (it is what earned her the rune) to protect her home. But that said, she would kill as well. Weaver is no one thing – neither Reaper nor Savior.

“A little greed never hurt anyone. Maybe.” Her eyes flash with amusement, and her grin is amused as she replies. Likely, greed has hurt countless horses, but saved countless others. Greed gets you power, and power is protection, though it makes you a target as well. Like everything in Weaver’s life, and like Weaver herself, it is a double-edged sword.  

It’s not long before another joins them. He too is young like the girl, and Weaver feels old in this particular crowd. And it’s not all that often that she feels old, given that she isn’t. Barely a woman grown, but still, they aren’t grown past baby fuzz and gangly legs. All of which, despite being new, gives her a general air of feeling superior, though she keeps it hidden for the moment. This is not where she grew up, and her name means nothing here. Best to remember that while she learned more about this place she’s decided to settle.

But then he speaks, and she really just can’t. Though she’s stopped from the myriad of comebacks sitting on the tip of her tongue by one word. Nonsense, says another child. Though this one seems slightly older, not all legs and fuzz anymore. Horns curl from his head, decked with gold chains, and wings sprouted from his back. He’s the first in this place she’s seen like her – that is to say, both wings and horns. Except he seems to glow. His eyes – well, no, there aren’t really eyes there…She stares for a moment, curious and unashamed and she takes the strange colt in.

He talks of doing things because they must, because it is their price. She knows there is always a price. She’d watched her world flip on it’s head because of the greed for magic that ran rampant in her home, horses leeching it from the land with abandon. So their gods (fairies there, not gods though) had taken it all back. That was their price. She, thankfully, had left before they’d taken her magic.

Vezer whispers conspiratorially that they aren’t all asses. She doesn’t mind certain brands of asshole - she is her own brand of asshole, after all – but she’s not a fan of this tiny-child know-it-all. Weaver laughs at Vezer’s words, giving Zubari a pointed glance like they were sharing a secret at his expense. Which of course, they are. Vezer tells him to help or move on, and Weaver finds that she’s growing to like the girl. She’s nice enough, which may mean she tires of Weaver quickly, but she’s got some bite to her.

She turns to the the tiny little boy and simply says, “What’s wrong with getting dirty?” She’d died to save her old home. She wasn’t overly concerned about picking up dead things. And then to the glowing, older colt called Tyrath. “Do you always introduce yourself with your title?” She can’t help herself, though she bites back anything more than that. And at least she manages to sound somewhat curious, rather than like she’s actually silently rolling her eyes. Even she’d never used the title Princess. Such a meaningless thing, given for the sheer fact they happened to have the genes of at least one monarch.  But maybe here, it was less meaningless. Maybe. So she goes back to work, trying very hard to look curious and nothing more.

- weaver -