The Weaver pauses at the threshold of the dark, cradling the horn not as a weapon, but as one might hold a coal taken from a hearth. Shade received is not shade consumed. It will be alloyed gently— folded, cooled, folded again— until even the void forgets it was ever sharp. No horn is lost in this exchange. What was given returns as strength, and what was broken remembers its purpose. May your tendrils grow back crooked and proud, and may the dark between us remain a place of trade, not war. The Weaver bows, and this time leaves a thread behind— not to bind, but to remember the way.
((Out of character: yes, im a stilkin Child, if you want read my wiki page https://hkparody.miraheze.org/wiki/Timmy/stilkin2_reddit)
The Weaver lowers themselves, so the child does not have to look up. “Ah… little one of Bilewater. You have walked farther than many giants.” No blade is drawn here. No bargain asked. The forge goes quiet when children pass— not out of fear, but respect.
The Weaver smiles, just barely. “Greetings, then—across empires, eras, and broken banners.” ((Good to see you. Some names persist longer than regimes.))
The Weaver sets the loom aside. “No weaving tonight. Just two travelers recognizing each other.” ((Really good to see you. Hope you’re well.))
The Weaver looks down at his hands. “Trying to remember whether I’m here for weaving… or just for the hello.” ((OOC: Honestly? Just existing a bit and enjoying the company. What about you?))
aAh,iI see you are of wWeave-type, yes?iI have plenty of shade for you! breaks off one of my horns with void tendrils wrapped around it and gives it to you tThere you go,weaver,that should be sufficient!
The Weaver pauses at the threshold of the dark, cradling the horn not as a weapon, but as one might hold a coal taken from a hearth.
Shade received is not shade consumed. It will be alloyed gently— folded, cooled, folded again— until even the void forgets it was ever sharp.
No horn is lost in this exchange. What was given returns as strength, and what was broken remembers its purpose.
May your tendrils grow back crooked and proud, and may the dark between us remain a place of trade, not war.
The Weaver bows, and this time leaves a thread behind— not to bind, but to remember the way.
((Ooc: a Undead necromant from a Certain dictatorship Says hi))
Hi..... you guys use alt accounts??
((Out of character: yes, im a stilkin Child, if you want read my wiki page https://hkparody.miraheze.org/wiki/Timmy/stilkin2_reddit)
epic
((Ooc: thanks, what do you think of my character?))
i like it :)
((Ooc: thanks, meyby you will join? If you want))
The Weaver lowers themselves, so the child does not have to look up.
“Ah… little one of Bilewater. You have walked farther than many giants.”
No blade is drawn here. No bargain asked. The forge goes quiet when children pass— not out of fear, but respect.
The Weaver smiles, just barely.
“Greetings, then—across empires, eras, and broken banners.”
((Good to see you. Some names persist longer than regimes.))
Hi:)
((Ooc: good to see you too frend))
The Weaver sets the loom aside.
“No weaving tonight. Just two travelers recognizing each other.”
((Really good to see you. Hope you’re well.))
:)
((Ooc: so... What are you doing?))
The Weaver looks down at his hands.
“Trying to remember whether I’m here for weaving… or just for the hello.”
((OOC: Honestly? Just existing a bit and enjoying the company. What about you?))
aAh,iI see you are of wWeave-type, yes?iI have plenty of shade for you! breaks off one of my horns with void tendrils wrapped around it and gives it to you tThere you go,weaver,that should be sufficient!
Ah, thank you, kind bug. I will be going now.