If she’s being accurate, she’s good at not staying dead. But that’s an awkward sentence, so she doesn’t stick to exact accuracy with this one. She dies, she just doesn’t stay dead. It’s happened twice. Once at Death’s gentle touch, the very touch that has since given her mastery over death. She will meet him again, one day, but it will be at her choosing that she falls into her arms once again. The second time was at the hands of a particularly cruel herd that she’d stumbled into in the middle of the night. Hadn’t even seen them coming, and certainly didn’t stand a chance. There were a handful of faded scars along her right ribcage where she’d taken that beating. They’d left her lying in the dirt and the mud to die, certain that she would still be there the morning when the sun’s rays shone. She was long gone, leaving only traces of blood behind.

She didn’t like to make a habit of dying, however. It hurt. She wanted to learn how to be more than an unruly, double-edge sword. She was all instinct and no finesse. All fearlessness and foolishness, no calculating plans. Beloved giggles away, which Weaver finds she’s quickly getting used to. She likes the mare, even the weird giggles, but she does find Erebos a little more interesting. Well no, that’s the wrong word. He’s just a bit easier to understand, and he’s so much like her brother it’s a little captivating and haunting. In the place where she’d come to get away from her home, she finds him.

Would Beloved understand that fascination, that it is no insult to the pale mare herself? Maybe, maybe not. Though Weaver isn’t the kind to worry much about insulting others, though the fact that this thought crosses her mind is something. She likes Beloved enough to think about the possibility of this. But really, how would she explain it to her? Besides, Weaver sort of doubts Beloved cares.

If only he would tell her of his dreams to be strong again. She would work for that anyway – she always did, desired nothing less than strength and power. But what could they be together, if she knew? Not that she knows what they might accomplish together either – she does not know this young General enough to have a clue – but how a girl could dream about that. Dream about the havoc that she could wreak in a world where she could not die, with others beside her that longed for something similar.

He accepts her into their ranks though, naming her a solider, and she offers a smile and a nod. “I’d love to spar. You let me know when General. I’m always ready.” At that, her grin grows a little wider, that mischievous Mona Lisa-like smile that knows more than it says. Not that she knows anything in this new land, but if you act like you own the place, one day you will.

- weaver -