Weaver is all for being her own entity, a woman unto herself. She can survive without help, can traverse worlds and stop the apocalypse without the aid of others. However, she’s no fool either. They are herd creatures by nature, and there’s some benefit to that. Together, they are stronger. Together, they can take down larger enemies or split and cover more territory. Together, they become an unstoppable force. Apart, they are merely impressive, merely a singular entity. They are each memorable and worthy in their own ways, of course, but there is only so far one individual can go, there is only so large a target one individual can take down.

Power comes from within, yes, but it also comes in numbers.

If she believed that she could be everything she wanted on her own, there would be no point in living in a herd. Weaver’s never been the girl who needs a community or friends or family. She can and has lived on her own, can entertain herself, can find her own adventures and could live the life of a vagabond. That life isn’t enough though. She would become a specter to those she met, or at best, perhaps a tall tale. The painted raven mare that could not die.

Alone, she could not be as large as she wanted. Alone, she could not accomplish her dreams. Like Erebos, she knew she needed others, knew she needed to belong to an army that would train her, knew that she needed to belong to something bigger than just herself. It was not knowledge she cared to admit. On her sleeve she wore only herself and her independence, her own confidence and capabilities. That was her mask, one that was certainly full of truths, but still only a mask. Deep down, she knew she needed the Basin to be truly great. Deep down, she hoped the Basin needed her as well.

“Really,” she says, confident in her assertion. Sure, there would be those that didn’t care for greatness. There would be some that just wanted the company or safety a herd provided, others still that simply longed for a quiet life. There would be more that wanted everything, that wanted to make the Basin everything it should be. They would have wolves and one day sentinels to guard them. Visitors wouldn’t flaunt themselves on the border but would come with respect, eyes glancing to those metal guards with apprehension instead of disgust. The Basin would be whispered through Helovia as a place to respect, perhaps to fear. Though respect was far better. Weaver has seen firsthand where fear leads. Her mother ruled by fear, but it had only ended in ashes and ruin.

All things ended, but they didn’t need to end as the Chamber had.

“There will be some who don’t care, but there will be more who do. You never know till you ask, and the worst thing that happens is someone says no. Which is about the exact same as now, when you haven’t asked at all.” But she thinks of Wessex and Beloved and Oizys, of the small but fiersome army they had. She thinks of Rikyn and imagines he’d be pleased to lead a herd that fit within Erebos’ dream. They would recruit those that knew how to dream as well, that longed for greatness. “You’ve got one more on your side already, far better than five minutes ago.”