Honestly, Crowley wasn't sure if he would have rather chanced his life and stayed in the Basin rather than coming to this rotten pit. If not for the lives of Rhiannon, whom he'd seen toting around a peculiarly hornless filly around, and Arah, as well as the unborn souls within Arah's womb, then the brindle surely would have stayed behind. But despite a cold demeanor, his love for them was simply too strong and so he followed, hoping that wherever they were headed was really, truly safe and presented no danger for when his progeny arrived.

Not only were they being crammed into the same space as the winged and hornless, but they shared the same roof as equalists, of their enemies! The mere thought of bedding down in even the same tunnel as one of the rotten beings was difficult for the Weaver to swallow, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. The sight of them as he walked past beckoned a sneer to cross his face, remaining there until they were long gone and out of his periforals. He eyed the flowing river of lava with temptation, but he wasn't so disgusted as to throw himself over just yet.

During their travels to this so-called 'Sanctuary'(which was anything but in the Weaver's mind), Lady Illynx had spoken with him of their plans for the Basin once they returned to it. The ideas she'd concocted amongst others were absolutely brilliant, and while supplies would be considerably difficult to find down in the dark, stagnant caves, Crowley was certain there would be something they could use in order to get a head-start on their projects.

Whether any apprentices or other interested parties showed up, he cared not, for lack of an audience wouldn't stop him. Farenjer could join him at any time, whether to speak of crafting or otherwise, for while they were very much different Crowley had enjoyed the younger stallion's company during their rare times together. When prompted as to why he was interested in the art of weaving, Farenjer had claimed he wanted to be useful, to prove himself and provide for the herd. It had been a selfless answer, and one Crowley had been glad to hear.

As Crowley walked, the tunnels were only made darker as shadows rolled off from and trailed behind him, twisting around his hocks in a seemingly never ending pattern. Following in their wake were ghastly whispers, but what exactly they were saying was up entirely to the mind of whoever would listen. To Crowley, they were a source of comfort, cradling his mind rather than driving it mad and assuring him that the Gods had yet to abandon Helovia.

The sensation of moss beneath his frogs pulled Crowley from his quiet reverie, and upon looking down and spying moss, the brindle's mind began to tick in thought. It wouldn't be the best material to work with, or at least he assumed so having never worked with it before, but if dried and worked properly he was certain it would do until they fled the cave. The eerily florescent room provided just enough light for him to spy a variety of other vegetation, ranging from vines and stems, leaves and bark.

It would take time and certainly many frustrations, but Crowley set to work then, carefully beginning to pull the moss up from the slick floor and beginning to mold it.

"blather blather blather"

[Just because this table is completely ironic and hilarious. ;D]