The group disperses as this Kisamoa finishes his task, and she takes off following a pack, letting them break off one by one until a filly catches her eye. She trails the girl for a while, curious about the spiderweb markings that cover this girl’s underside. She’s noticed all manner of colors and markings and strange things in the group that had formed around the sea monster (sea god? She doesn’t know. ) Not that weird colors or markings were new to her. Her homeland was full of strangely colored horses. Strange going so far as to include puke green or galaxy colored or literally, everything else.

Honestly, a bunch of them had been pretty damn ugly. That’s sort of what you get for breeding Christmas colored horses with leopard spots.

The girl is pretty though, in a unique but sensible way. Weaver is rather boring here, though she doesn’t care. She’s still pretty, simplicity be damned. The mark of Death sits proudly on her chest, her chain wrapped horns tall and impressive in their tiara on her head. Her wings catch the sunlight, the blue sheen evident in the daylight. For a while, she watches the filly, just trying to figure something out. The girl manages to break a dam in a river, water rushing forward.

It’s impressive, Weaver gives her that. Of course, Weaver doesn’t look down on the young. She’d been barely a year when she’d face the four horsemen, when Death had claimed her and then spit her back out. The young are impressive creatures, as it turns out. Besides, Weaver’s not exactly old. However, she is grown, and she figures maybe she can help the girl. “Want some help?” she calls, finally slipping out of her hiding spot toward the girl, making it look like she hasn’t been lurking for the past few minutes.

She looks at the water, which seems like it’s probably less disgusting now than it was a few minutes ago. With the stream moving again, things seem to be slowly clearing themselves out, though much seems to be getting caught on the bank. She sticks a hoof in the rather freezing water, letting seaweed tangle around her hoof and beginning a pile off the bank of all the dead vegetation that would just leech back into the ground anyway. A few bones stick of out of the rocks at the bottom of the shallow water, and she uses her wings to scoop them out where she can, her mouth only when she has too.

“I’m Weaver,” she offers as she works, hoping the girl will stick around and actually want help. Because to be fair, Weaver had totally just assumed. But who wants to clean alone? Well really, who wants to clean dead things in general? But at least with company it might suck less. “I’m pretty new to Helovia. Do you have any idea what this,” and moves a hoof around, gesturing to the piles of dead things, “is all about?”

- weaver -