[color=peru][center][h3]Weaves[/h3][/center][/color]
	The King. The one who had sent countless men to her home, in search of shiny rocks. Men who reviled her simply for existing, and who tried to kill her for no other reason than because they were told. Yet also, the one who had sent the Warrior, who was like the sun, shining and magnificent in battle, who now stood before her as, presumably, her equal and ally—and also the Warden, who was like the moon, the pale and beautiful light which shines in the darkness, the harbinger of dangerous times, the understated force which moved the oceans simply by existing. Here, too, these black waters, the Blackguards, were being moved by her presence alone. The King, who commanded both the fools and the finest, was a strange figure. Would he, too, resemble the sun? The Warden, she was stranger still, but made good on her words.

	Weaves did not understand most of her words, but perhaps as a courtesy to her—or perhaps it was true for everyone, she had no way of knowing—Weaves saw, in her mind's eye, images of people, places, and names written. These would weave themselves into her memories far more strongly than any words ever could. While some others in the room would latch on to the hope of freedom immediately, barely paying attention to anything the Warden said, Weaves was in something akin to a meditative state, committing all of the images to memory, her mouth slightly agape at the sudden realization that they were to attempt to slay a god. It was certainly not a common occurrence for Weaves to interact at all with something more ancient than herself, that wasn't also a tree. Perhaps the occasional tortoise, but nothing more. To kill a being such as this—such a scene would make a fine tapestry. To find brilliant enough colors to do it justice—that alone would be an adventure.

	And if she were destined by the stars to fail, then—she would simply have to fight for a place in someone else's tapestry.

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	Blackness. Fragments of a memory spun in Weaves' mind, stitching themselves back together. Something like an earthquake.

	[color=peru]"Oh..! The sun..!"[/color] she cried out with wistful longing. Ah... she had missed the sun's warmth, after all.

	She quickly stood up, Marrow in hand, greedily basking in the lingering sun, the cool breeze, the smell of trees and flowers dancing on the wind. Oh, she'd missed them all. How quickly she'd gotten acquainted with the Maw and its darkness—such was her nature—but this scene reminded her what it was like, all those moons ago, to confront the sun, to face fear and death, to howl in the face of fate. For the first time in many moons, she stretched her too-long limbs freely, and breathed all the way in. In amongst the pleasant smells of nature, however, there was a pungent smell. It wasn't her; Moonwalkers didn't smell like anything at all. It was one of the men who accompanied her here.

	Turning to face the others, Weaves eyed them all curiously, one by one. Though she was close by—a daunting, looming figure nearly eight feet tall—her eyes felt far away, her gaze a thousand-yard stare, her smile a forced one, though not malicious in its falsity. Weaves cast a glance at Christoph, who introduced himself as "alive," and applauded him in a slow and stiff way that showed Weaves didn't really understand why, when or how she was supposed to do it. She looked at Holgarth next and dropped her false smile, which she seemed to take as equivalent to a frown. [color=peru]"I smell your incense, but am not knowing, why,"[/color] she tried to say, her voice lacking the upward inflection that should accompany a question. Instead, she tilted her head to the side like a child. [color=peru]"Does a High-Place King kill also the children,"[/color] she added seemingly out of nowhere, ignoring his question about who or what she was. Though in fairness, perhaps she also didn't know how precisely to answer it. [color=peru]☾[i]Woe, O Kings of the Earth, who send their fools to the high places to place their babes upon a pyre,[/i]☽[/color] she mourned, her face upturned toward the heavens, but devoid of obvious emotion.