Beloved cackles at the I’ll just fly in comment and, at least to Weaver, it doesn’t seem like an amused oh that’s funny cackle. It seems like a cackle that knows something Weaver doesn’t. Which wouldn’t be shocking. Weaver barely knows the name of the place she’s decided to call home for at least the next ten minutes, let alone what exactly is going on in this place. Her reply comes with a knowing smirk, and Weaver swings her head a little more in Beloved’s direction at that look. “What aren’t you telling me?” she says, her voice serious, doing her best to keep the demand out of the question. But this seems like one of those things she should probably know.

Maybe not. Maybe she’s totally fucking wrong. But she doubts it. Beloved didn’t strike her as subtle. Just weird. They keep going, and Beloved answers questions in ways Weaver doesn’t entirely understand. Is it simply the way the pale mare speaks, or is it because there’s a language here that the girl doesn’t speak yet. She thinks the former, but like everything else, has no point of reference to actually have a clue.

It’s a strange realization, that she knows nothing. Before, she was a princess. Daughter of a feared Queen. And while yes, not living in her mother’s shadow is a glorious thing, it was nice to be on the inside of the circle. She never experienced life outside that circle. Her time away from her mother’s inner circle was time spent away from most every circle, flitting from place to place as a guest, not as a potential recruit.

A whole slew of retorts come to mind at the comment that everyone else are merely faces, that Weaver would not know the names. She doesn’t even know the names Hotaru or Erebos (though the later reminds her of her brother). Everyone is a nameless face to the girl, other than Beloved, who names herself repeatedly enough that Weaver isn’t about to forget this particular name. For once, she keeps her mouth shut though, and it’s not long before she gets a face for one of those names anyway.

Soon, a black unicorn (and she’s beginning to wonder if this particular thing is what no one is telling her, or if she just so happened to draw unicorns to her side) appears. He does not come particularly close, but close enough, introducing himself as General Erebos. He reminds her of Erebor in looks and name, though Erebor born no horn. At one point in her life, Weaver had neither wings nor horn, though no one here need know that. “Weaver,” she offers, dipping her head own in a vague show of being polite. It’s not a bow, but it’s something.

She’s never bowed her head to anyone. It’s a strange feeling.

He keeps talking, brow raising, a bit of charm creeping into his words. It takes a lot of restraint for her to resist the urge to flirt, for no other reason than flirting is fun. Instead she smiles, and it too is a charismatic but mischievous thing, her voice that sort of smoky, sexy sound. This is always how she is though. These things she cannot change. “Beloved has been a good hostess, thank you.” A strange hostess, yes, but not bad. She’s answered Weaver’s questions and put up with her crap.

- weaver -