[center][url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VTD9YHlzbzc][h3]♬[/h3][/url]
It had been a while since Weaves had seen the sun. How long, she couldn't say.[/center]

	Once more, she awoke to a pale, ethereal light that was not the moon. Once more, she felt the heavy, full-body embrace of something that was not sleep paralysis. That meant the otherworldly being who was not a Moonwalker was near. In response, the otherworldly being known as "Weaves" faintly stirred, looking around the space that was not her cell. That meant the Warden needed something from her—something that was not related to her more mundane skills. Something that was not related to the upkeep of the Maw—what could it be? Weaves stirred, but was resisted. She offered no further struggle. Patience and serenity were virtues she had in abundance, and she knew what that force meant.

[center][i]Not yet.[/i]

That was what Weaves had told herself back then, when she wanted to run away—the first time she confronted the sun.

A hundred moons? A thousand? How long ago, she couldn't say.[/center]

	Moonwalkers had only one thing to say regarding the sun. Those touched by its light will be forever bound to it, unable to return to the tribe—banished. Yet the tribe had judged themselves unworthy of her, Weaves had decided. Perhaps the guardian of the woodland creatures would be kinder to her, she had thought. Awaiting its approach over the crest of the hill, she stood paralyzed with anticipation. What did she feel, when that warmth enveloped her skin for the first time? Whether it was comfort or terror, she couldn't say. Yet, it was beautiful.

	For a time, Weaves had been content, living in the light. Woodland creatures were terrified of her, and would remain as still as the dead in her presence—but Weaves wished for them to sing, and so she had learned to imitate their stillness. Perhaps stillness had given way to idleness, however. One day, humans had come, and they were not so terrified of her as they should have been. Had she seen something of a mirror of herself in those creatures, confronting their fear of her as she had confronted her fear of the sun? Regardless, mercy had been a mistake. She allowed them to leech off of her land for far too long, these loathsome creatures who offered their newborn babes to a pyre in homage to a god whose name even the ancient Moonwalkers did not know. When they refused to leave, she slaughtered them, as was her right. In reply, their king had sent more. She slaughtered them, too. Then, a much fiercer man came, along with many others, with arms and armor.

	The force slowly marched over the crest of the hill, alongside their guardian the sun, whom Weaves had angered. This time, however, she felt no fear—only rage. Again, she slaughtered them all, this time slowly and meticulously. Yet their leader matched her movements, and traded her every blow with one of his own. He had appeared to her as the very embodiment of the sun itself, and no matter how hard she tried she could not kill him. Mutually exhausted, each had let the other escape to fight another day. Perhaps mercy had been a mistake yet again.

	Another force slowly marched over the crest of the hill, with the moon as her guardian. Once more, Weaves awaited its approach with anticipation, paralyzed where she stood. What did she feel, when that coldness enveloped her skin for the first time? Whether it was comfort or terror, she couldn't say. For a time, Weaves had been content, living in the light. However, it was time for her to return to darkness.

[center]It has been a while since Weaves has seen the sun. Does she miss its warmth? She couldn't say. Yet, it was beautiful.[/center]

	Weaves watched the half-giant rage against his restraints. She couldn't understand his useless struggle. What did he hope to gain by making all that noise? Patience, the Warden responded—rightfully so—allowing the man to stand up in his place. Then, she regarded the others in the room. Weaves supposed that was her cue to stand. She had no reason to keep the Warden waiting. She'd fulfilled the promises she made.

	The creature, cloaked in darkness, had appeared to have been standing already, at the appropriate height for a human female. Yet, a pair of thin legs materialized from the dank fog that enveloped the ground and hoisted the figure into the air. With a slightly sickening crunch, it straightened its back, such that it towered over all present, even the Warden. It held an appropriately long staff in its right hand, sharpened in a taper off to one side like a piece of bamboo. Its blank eyes returned no light. Neither red nor yellow pierced the dark room as it gazed down upon the others. Its leering was not seen, but felt as a cold chill, enhanced by the mournful wail of its voice.

[center][color=peru]☾[i]Upon whose blood does the light of this moon reflect?[/i]☽[/color] Weaves inquired of the Warden, sure of only one thing.

The Warden had given her a needle with which to weave terror.[/center]