Ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies

Sleep was not something that eluded her, and therefore not something she sought. Weaver had never been the kind of girl to lose sleep over spilt milk (or blood, as the case may be). But of course, if you grew up with her mother, you couldn’t let things like blood and death bother you. She’d stopped the heart of an innocent mare in front of half the neighboring monarchs just to start a war with no purpose. Weaver had found herself dangled at a deathly height above the ground by a golden dragon in exchange. Not that it was a real threat to try and kill someone that can’t be killed, but her mother had given her the raven wings that she still has. Mommy dearest wouldn’t never catch her, but she’d make sure Weaver could catch herself.

She can damn well catch herself.

But euphoria and tranquility call to her in equal measure. Euphoria simply because why not, because slipping onto some blissful current sounds like an amazing way to spend an night. Tranquility because she has not been still in too long. Because she has not stopped and called a place home and the feeling of it is strange to her still, leaves her jittery and anxious to move. To get up to no good. And this, at least, is a harmless way to get up to no good.

A sound catches her attention, and she flicks an ear back and more slowly, turns her amber eyes to the source. The hairy, upside down, skinny stallion is there. Not that she’s surprised. He’d been the one to ask about the drug in the first place. Albrecht? Probably. “Maybe?” she says, feeling at ease but not necessarily high. “Not strong enough, though.”

She turns back to the plants and plucks two more, offering one to Albrecht by unceremoniously dumping it at his feet. Her head lowers slightly, giving Raven a really great view of Albrecht's own companion. Raven eyes snake in his horns with some combination of trepidation and hunger. He’s too small to actually hunt a snake, though she can feel him considering the possibility. You’d have to fly first, she thinks. Though he can’t understand the word, maybe he’ll pick up the sentiment behind it.

“Why is your hair like that? I mean, I’ve seen a lot, but that shit’s new.” She asks, and not because the drugs have kicked in and made her less inhibited. She’s got few inhibitions to start with. No, she just really doesn’t know what else to talk about as they sit there in the near dark waiting for some plants to whisk them off to la la land.

That, or maybe the plant really is working and she just can’t formulate a useful thought.

weaver