She's just beginning to understand the history of this place. It's more than Beloved's cackles could really teach her, whispered warnings given in riddles. But she'd been given places now, places that like all the darkest secrets are paraded like a beacon of hope. Hide the dark parts and it seems alright. It makes her wonder how different those here are from her old home. They wore their darkness on their sleeve. They were proud of the heart that Atrox tore from his chest, that still beat in the dirt beneath their feet. They were proud of the forever burning tree, of the blood it required to tell the future. They were proud of every dark, twisted thing that came their way.

Act like you own the place.

The Chamber was feared. Feared enough to start a war over nothing. One that left both sides bloodied and battered, yes, but it left everyone afraid still. 5 nations could not defeat the two that had banded together. They were something to remember. Her mother's legacy would not be easily forgotten, her name still the stuff of nightmares. Weaver is not ashamed of the things her mother has done or of the monster stories painted her father to be. She never met him, but she imagines she would have liked him. Liked to watch the way disease took hold of the trees from the inside out, watched it all die in pain.

She starts at the tomb. The stories don't scare her away. The world has changed, and they can all be damned if they think they can take her wings. Little trick of dying, she comes back right as rain. They would have to take her wings again and again and again. But she doesn't fear that from Tia or even Rikyn, who still eyes her wings with suspicion. She doesn't seek knowledge because she's looking for a reason to leave. No, she seeks understanding. This is her home know, and she'd like to know the good bad and the ugly. There's usually a lot to be said for the bad and the ugly.

She wants to know what, and who, she fights for. Wants to know why she covers her hide in yet more scars for them. Her wounds from her recent battles have not yet healed. Most are small, though there's a few lovely gashes. Three run along her rump, jagged and raw, from Oizys' horns. She leaves them that way, letting the skin heal in an ugly mess, not minding the scars. Her hair would likely grow back gray in all those places, till one day she just stopped being black all together, instead a mass of scars. She wants to know the stories of those she stops being pretty for.

Hell, who's she kidding, she'll still be pretty even if she's gray and wrinkled.

She's not sure what she expects to find here. Answers written in the dirt, maybe. But no, not really. She simply wants to be at the place because it is important, for what she's beginning to understand is more than one reason. She just doesn't know all the reasons. Doesn't know every side. Maybe she could die briefly and find him, ask her questions, and then come back with the knowledge she needs. But instead she stands here, staring at the tomb of a man she didn't know, thinking probably she should have brought flowers.