ask no questions

Weaver is rather predictable, which is fine. She doesn’t have some goal of being mysterious or hard to read, though she would like to keep that soft side buried. It’s a rare enough moment that she’s got a soft side at all, and she chooses who sees it. Though Erebos might disagree entirely that she’s soft at all. Her version of caring is still steely, sharpened enough to hurt, a version of caring that really doesn’t fit the mold. So, Mortuus isn’t wrong, but at the same time, she’s not very soft and squishy, but she does care for more things that she would ever admit. If your enemies know what you know, if they know your heart, they can hurt far more than a blade ever can.

“If you’ve figured all that out so easily, clearly I’m not hiding anything well,” she says, that playful tone still in her voice. He is, for some reason, one of the ones she cares about. Why he’s made the list, she couldn’t quite say. Yes, he gives her drugs, but her reasons are less petty than that, even if she’ll never admit it aloud. There’s more to him than that, something good and something horrible all at once, like her. “I like creeps,” she adds, like it’s really no big deal. Of course he’s a creep, he bleeds like the dead, but she’s not running away.

She moves closer to the fire, refraining from shaking the water off herself since this is not her home. Raven had already been a terrible guest, though he’d done a rather fantastic job of shaking most of the water onto her, but still, she didn’t want to then shake it all onto the ground. They were already dripping enough of it, and he was trailing plenty of blood into the puddles on the floor. The flames reflect off both of them, and there’s something beautiful and eerie about the moment, his deep voice fitting in the setting. She listens, dropping the Cheshire grin and the playful attitude as he speaks, offering the respect his story deserves.

He is like her, but worse. She has always valued the knowledge that one day, one day Death would greet her as an old friend and take her gently. One day, she would stay in his realm just as she should. Now though, she can live without fear, can take risks others cannot take. For her, it is a blessing, a gift, but she can understand how he feels on some level. She would never want to keep coming back past her time, would never want to live in this world long past her time. One lifetime was enough.

She laughs, but it’s not her usual laugh, it’s something softer and understanding and knowing. “I am not the best to answer that question. Well, no, perhaps I am. When I was young,” she begins, as if she is not still young, but she’d been barely a year then, “I faced the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse when they threatened our home. Four of us bear their seals now, and I, giving myself willing to Death to stop him, bear his.” She nods to the blue rune that sits on her chest. It doesn’t glow, doesn’t look remarkable in any real way, but she’d died to earn it. “I’ve only ever made it so far as the River, but I have no way to cross. Not yet. One day though, old age will find me and I will cross that river willingly, and that ability is a gift I cherish But I cannot be killed, and I bear the scars from every death, though they are merely scars.”

She has far more scars that deaths. The first death came with no scars, just the gentle touch of Death. The second left her bruised and battered and broken, and she wears little scars all across her body from that one. She wears many others though from her battles, gashes where the hair grows white if at all, marking her story for all to see. “Perhaps you can strike a new deal. If the devil made one once before, perhaps he will make one again. There is always a way to die. What good are you to Death here, after all?”

- weaver -

and you'll be told no lies