Mountains, when you have wings, are not a particularly treacherous thing. She has this ability to cheat, you see. Though to be fair, she’s not afraid of plummeting off a mountain even without her wings. She’s foolish, yes, but she’s pretty sure this place didn’t take her magic. Even if it did take her raven. Because by now, she is very sure he’s gone. Raven never left her side, spending the better portion of his days perched on her back or fluttering nearby being obnoxious, as Ravens are wont to do. She won’t admit she that misses him, but she misses him.

They are largely quite on their trek, the pale mare seeming to know the path well, though Weaver keeps pace. She prices herself on being elegant and graceful, even as they trudge and leap through and over mud. Even on paths that are unfamiliar to her own feet. She spent her childhood wending her way through pine forests and mountain paths. Her feet are sure, her steps steady. Everyone once in a while, Weaver asks where they are as the scenery changes, trying to learn the lay of the land as she goes, hoping the strange mare will answer.

Weaver notices how the mare cringes as the sun grows brighter, those amber eyes peering sideways, trying to figure out this strange mare who referred to herself in the third-person. Please, don’t let them all be like this. She’ll be high tailing it out.  The mare seems to giggle at her own thoughts, and Weaver doesn’t answer, not entirely sure she wants to know the answer. Not that she’s afraid, but rather she wonders if she’d even understand whatever words came slipping from those pale lips.

Eventually, Beloved points toward a rather impossible to find rift in the mountain side. Well well. She liked the entrance, though still, she grins slightly, that mischievous grin of hers that’s probably lost on Beloved. “So I’ll just fly in?” She ruffles the black feathers tucked against her side, the soft light of the north just catching the hint of blue.

They continue forward, passing what once looked like proud and impressive sentinels. “What happened there?” she asks, tossing her head at the things that now stood rusted and weak and unimpressive. Her mane settles back haphazardly on both sides of her neck, that same sort of wild careless beauty that her mother had. But no one here would compare her to her mother.

“Do the important ones have names?” She doesn’t stop the questions as they come, rather trying to gain whatever information she can. Were these places like the kingdoms in Beqanna, ruled by Kings and Queens? Were they traditional, led by men with women left to breed (this she doubts, if only because Beloved really doesn’t strike her as that type). But then again, what did Weaver possibly know? She keeps following, grateful for the drink at least. It has, in truth, been quite some time since she’s had water or food, so she dips her head toward the waters that are, mercifully, not frozen in this wasteland of a place.

To be fair, it is no wasteland. It’s is cold and wintery, despite where they left being relatively warm. But there seems to be grass peeking through the ground, which seems promising. There’s no pine forest as she is so used to, but the pine forest had always been her mother’s really. In a way, she’s glad to find that her shelter is looming mountains, that her life no longer has to be dictated only by the things her mother loved. They shared many loves, of course, but no one here could compare her to The Raven Queen. “I like it,” she says, her voice casual and careless as always, but the words true enough.

- weaver -