She likes Beloved. Really, she does. She can handle the creepy laughing and the toothy smile and all the weird, off-kilter sort of stuff. But the talking in half puzzles is killing her. She’s a smart girl, and she can draw some conclusions from in-between the lines. Apparently wings are a thing frowned upon here. But she doesn’t want to have to guess that this is in fact the thing that might be problematic. She just wants someone to tell her, point blank. But that seems like the thing here. Who even cares if she has wings? But then again, she came from a world were those without magic hated those with magic (some days, anyway, it always did depend on the monarch). The idea is foreign to her. But they are only wings.

What would the members of the Basin think if they knew she was born with none of the things that now adorned her body. That once, she was simply a black and white girl with nothing to note. She’d earned her mastery over death. She’s been given the wings from her mother, when Yael had thought it was a brilliant idea to dangle Weaver miles off the ground. She’d gotten the horns as a gift from a strange witch doctor she’d found in some forest on her way here. Cliché? Definitely. But she’s gotten horns out of it. A rather deadly little tiara.

She has to give it to Beloved for being blunt now though. Where she spoke half in riddles to answer Weaver’s questions, now she’s straight to the point. We haven’t a clue what she is good for, the mare says. So apparently this isn’t the kind of place where she gets to sit on her laurels. Not that she expected it, mind you, but that doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be a nice change of pace. What are you? the pale ghost asks, rather than What can you do? Though the slightly round-about question doesn’t surprise Weaver at this point.

Erebos is more forthcoming, though she finds herself watching him and thinking more than listening to his words. He reminds her of Erebor, though as she approaches, she realizes he’s more blue than black. Where Erebor’s eyes were hard as granites, Erebos’ are more like a storm. And she is rather intrigued by the young General, though she can’t let that show with Beloved staring at them. She’s not sure what intrigues him though, except perhaps that he reminds her a bit of home.

He gives her a list of jobs they have here. Far more than any kingdom back in her old home, where they had soldiers and diplomats. If he’d told her that she could be Weaver the Weaver, she might have actually jumped at the opportunity. Just because it would be ridiculous, and amusing. But she doesn’t know this, so instead she says, “I’m rather good at not dying,” she says simply, because they wanted to know what she was good for.

“You don’t wander alone for a year without picking up some various skills,” she adds, because she can do almost anything. But she’s untrained and unkempt in all those things. A jack of all trades and a master of none. “I’m best suited as a solider, but if don’t need more of those, I could help elsewhere.” She rolls her shoulders in something of a shrug. Not that she’d make for a very kind healer (It hurts? Oh, suck it up.), but she could do it. Or she would be Weaver the Weaver for comic relief.

- weaver -