Suprise Meeting With Weaver (Wrenmae)

[Ana Sol Starris]

Ana leaned back as Weaver leaned in, as if in a simantaneous motion synced between the two until finally the thief couldn't bend back much more without losing her balance much like a fool would have. So she blinked, she blinked and she stared back to those deep green eyes filled with captivating whimsy, squeezing her eyes shut on reaction to him randomly poking her forehead as if it were some button. Opening her eyes once more as he grinned and backed away, mouth going slack jawed, gapish much like a fish, shutting it quick as he turned around. Blushing, she was feeling increasingly embarresed, and what was that? Anger? Just a tad, not much, but it was there lingering, smouldering like an ember. How he got close was putting her on edge, as she normally didn't let people get very close to her purposely unless it was in the line of theft and picking pockets. Her eyes followed and watched him, her ears listened, and her mind processed as fast as it could being around him. Nodding once or twice to him, then she tumbled backwards as he jumped at her, making her feet mix up on themselves, arms flying up and to the sides in a futile attempt to catch herself believing she would fall to the ground; instead she was stopped by a rather sturdy and strong enough arm that rebalanced her on her feet. Utterly speechless with his actions, but his words? She was able to follow clearly, it just took her a moment or two, perhaps just a second of thought to clear his riddlesome language. Ana's hands went to her mouth as he tumbled, making an impressive scene of himself with his acting. She could feel the excitement boil down to its climax, and then to a stop- abrubtly; depressively. He was asking her to divulge more detail on her seeming 'story', in which she did not want to share. Hands fiddled with their fingers as her shoulders hunched, becoming a recluse in her own right. She didn't know much of this, she only enjoyed how stories went.. but she hadn't ever told them herself. The idea was alien to her. "I..I.. Well," she started off, maybe Weaver would be like Shroud or Wren, whatever was told to him wouldn't be shared with the other voices and minds tumbling about in the physical body, so maybe... just maybe it was okay to finally come out with it... Get it off her chest, once and for all, to make it true and something she had to do "the girl.. She lived alone, family a facade, with the truth nothing more than a lie in disguise." "She had a brother, and two sisters, a mother, and a father; cliche, right?" Ana stated, and then seemed to question to no one in particular, she took a breath and fiddled around with her poncho a bit before continuing on "well, there was the brother, who was smart and strong, he was the eldest.. and grown and gone before the girl reached of age, still nothing more than a child. He would come back for a time.. But would always leave after a few days, no more, no less." "Well there was also the father, he worked, and worked, and worked all day hard for his family, but when he would come home.. he was nasty.. he had a love for drink, and drink alot he did, but his family suffered because of him despite them well being" she began to shake her head, she hated this, hated, hated, hated.. The words continued to repeat in her head, anger and hate boiled up, words harsh, and forced out as if she didn't want to continue on. "The girl.." she choked a bit, "she was weak, and always sick, she rarely saw the outside beyond the room she shared with her sisters, but that didn't stop her from being adventurous and curious, it never stopped her from being strong willed and staying alive after countless moments of probable death she could have faced due to her fathers nastyness" she gripped her head and shook, she couldn't continue the story... She couldn't, wouldn't, she had described 'characters' but she just... Couldn't. Ana found her body had slowly curled up, she was now crouched on the ground, in a sort of ball and her face crushing itself into her knees as she cryed and snivvelled into her knees, pushing all the emotion, and the memories back in, compressing and bottling up all the pressure which resulted in her speaking of such things. Arms and hands going to protect her head and neck, she was scared of continuing the story. She couldn't get to that last part.. She couldn't.

[Wrenmae]

And his eyes never wavered, never flickered off her as she wrestled with the power of her story. Words clashed, crashed and rose to drown themselves with themselves...a murderous collection of sentences that laid her low in the street.

And as she curled there, her voice falling silent with tears.

She did not expect the swift kick that caught her in the side, nearly lifted her off the ground and hurled her from her place of remorseful rest in a tumble. Weaver's smile had never dwindled, but his eyes were fire themselves.

"Oh Sun-hair, Ana Sun-hair, who cares?" He followed after her at a skip, standing over her, casting the girl in his shadow. He was worse than Shroud at that point, at once a hundred feet tall and still his ordinary height. His fingers danced with no table to tap along.

He was a monster and at that point, he could have killed her or spared her with as little thought as he might swat a fly.

"You know what you are, Ana?" He asked her, kneeling down over her, "You're barely a footnote, you're hardly a story. You're running from your own narrative and hiding in such plainness you might as well be dirt." Although his tone insulted, nothing but stark merriment sprung from his voice.

"You want to kill your father? Kill your father. You want to kill me? Kill me. But it won't right your past or do any more than end the story of another. Silly people and their past regrets and revenges. The dead do not return to life. Revenge is only murder."

He rose up from her sharply, turning on his heel.

"Someday, Ana, little Ana, you will have the choice on whether to be great or nothing. I have chosen to be great, and I will be...but so long as you let yourself be controlled, you'll never amount to much of anything."

His shoulders hiccuped his dismissal and he continued walking, leaving her behind in the street.

[Ana Sol Starris]

The story, the blasted story, she couldn't believe she had more or less told him the whole thing- something she hadn't let slip from her mouth for years. Hadn't wanted to reveal it in the apartment from what seemed to be a millenia ago at that very moment, hypnotism, petch how could she have let him do that to her. The whole thing was a terrible nightmare in itself and she couldn't believe it, her curiousity was always a bit drastic compared to her paranoid tones of personality, isolated, and cold, worried and timid about the world around her because she couldn't escape it now. Not as she had years ago on a boat, quite a stow away at that if she remembered correctly, all skin and bones with a heart filled with a lust for adventure. Escape. From a life she now quite understood to be horrible, but could she call her current situation any better? There was a kick to her side that made her yelp out in pain, shattering the frigid air, and tearing at it with gasping breaths trying to find more of the sweet life that was called air, to pull it into her lungs, albeit painfully. It had been sudden, it had rolled her some ways away from her original place she had layed upon. The kick had taken her breath, to be more exact, but did she need to breath for the fear which had taken her quite clearly on her features, the story teller with whimsical gestures and fantasmisal words. He made his way to her, like a wolf for the prey, and all she could do was stare up at him in fear of her life. Dear gods no, the rabbit thought. Eyes widened as the predator leaned down, taking to a knee and getting close- invoking her an instinctual desire to live, but knowing full well she was in his arm range. Ana shrivelled up into a ball, letting her hands and arms go to protect her head as best as they could in case of more attack. She heard his words, delusional, verbal daggers coated with a merry tune made him seem not as bad, but for the life of her- she felt danger. This persona was so confusing, first he had asked her what her story was, and then he had kissed her, had drawn her in much like a how a performer would to a crowd, easily enough. She had been snagged by such a unique reaction out of him that- by the gods, the book! Ana peeked from her arms to stare at him. Remembering to breath with the realization which had smacked her hard in the face, it left her dazed, she could only hope he wouldn't end her life right then and there. It was the book, her brothers book that he had given her so long ago that was filled with tales of thievery and wisdom not generally passed on through the written tounge. It was the book that had brought the tale-spinner out, a weaver of words and story, a book- a story. Ana's book was a story in itself! A story had brought this persona out even if she hadn't given it to him, she had only shown him the book, she watched after as the weaver of words would rise and take the shackles of fear he had placed on her with him. As if she were nothing! Ana uncurled a bit to watch him. Should she be afraid of him? It was a terrible thought to think, but for some reason now... Ana was... She was feeling bold and brave. She wasn't some snivelling thief, she was not dirt to be trodden on as he told her she very well was. NO! She was not! Scrambling up despite a growing pain in her side, she yelled at him from the small bit of distance he had created "hey shyke head!" Ana picked a rock up and threw it as hard as she could at the Weaver of Words "I'M NOT DIRT."

[Wrenmae]

The rock clipped the air, weaving in its own way as it crossed the distance between them and cracked against Weaver's skull, flattening the mage out on the Sunberth street. He fell, spread eagle, and yet did so with as much grace as someone falling might have...almost pausing in midair before hitting the ground. He bounced once, twice, and then fell still.

Still as the grave

As soil deposited outside a ditch, inert and mundane.

As snow that falls silently, without clatter or thump.


And the storyteller lay still, like some grand beast slain by the hero, vanquished on the city streets. His eyes were closed and his head slack, blood pushed through the ragged cut high on his forehead and poured down the side of his face.

And he did not move.

He was still as death.

[Ana Sol Starris]

Much like a story of grandois victory, the rock flew and hit its target head on- litterally. At first Ana wanted to cheer, a hop to her step as she watched him fall that slow descent to the ground, the thuds not once, but twice echoed loudly. Crawled through her ears like warnings, when at first Wrenmae would not get up, the smile fell off her face and was replaced with an O of fear. Slack jawed as both hands would cover her mouth, a gasp of shock, from the bit of distance there was she could see the blood begin to ooze where she had hit him. Terrible, and not too inviting, it screamed at her- asking her why she had done what she did. Oh no... "Wren?" Ana called out uncertaintly hoping that this was a ruse, her hands falling to their respective sides with a shake and tremble in her body, a fear taking over. One thought repeating; What have I done? Suddenly just like that - the anger for being told she was nothing more than dirt dissapeared. The brave sensation that had coursed through her body had turned to fear, along side it the boldness turned to uncertaintity. Surely Wrenmae couldn't be dead from a simple rock to the head, could he? Ana wasn't all too sure about that, and so she sprinted to him, teetering on her feet and then falling to her knees beside him to grab hold of the front of his clothes. Gripping them so tightly as she leaned over to examine the cut on his forehead, he didn't move, he was as still as...Death. The word issued a series of hot blinding tears to spring up from her eyelids and fall down on top of his chest. What have I done? Oh no no no "Wren?!" Ana tried to keep her voice low, half schrieking his name "nonono please don't be dead- don't be dead!" At that point she was ready to drag him to the clinic by herself, this was entirely her fault, but perhaps there would still be time to save him? Time. It was of the essence, frantically fearful for his life. How would she drag him? She was weak, if she had been strong then she would be a laborerer, not a thief, not a whelp!

[Wrenmae]

Her words, her tear-soaked words, they fell upon the silent body as pryaers, as pleas, they came upon him and drowned his silence with their noise. So it was that she was too distracted to see his fist clench, pull back, pivot up and crush into her right cheek, sending the girl spinning off the body and across the ground.

"You petching shyke." The words were cold, devoid of overt anger, but the fury that lay beneath them was a furious pyre of barely restrained flames. Wren. No, Weaver...no...Shroud, turned and rolled to his feet, standing above Ana coldly.

Gingerly, he reached up to touch the gash on his forehead. The hand came away bloody. With agonizing ease, a laborious slowness, he drew his cold iron dagger and knelt down, placing one knee firmly into Ana's chest, holding her down as he brought the bloody hand down over her mouth. Pressed the blood there, smeared it across her lips, nose, and cheek. If she dared to struggle, she'd swiftly find an edge tickling her throat.

"You think you can mark me? Bitch? Petching gutterslut? I should cut your throat here and now, I should bleed you dry and let the birds pick at your remains...you arrogant little shyke."

A stab of pain in his head, Shroud winced.

Wren would not allow that. He threatened to overwhelm if the murderer pressed on. Instead, he took a breath, removed the hand, and then whipped the blade down across Ana's forehead, leaving a deep gash diagonal across the right side of her forehead, from hairline to eyebrow.

"Blood for blood, girl," the hypnotist warned, standing and sheathing his blade, "Never raised a hand against me again. Next time, I'll take your life."

He did not look behind him...he expected no attack. He walked back towards their home.

He never once checked to see if she had risen.

[Ana Sol Starris]

Stars danced in her vision as something collided with her cheek, painting her world in sudden, blinding white. Hardly registering she had been spun from the force of the punch for her back to land on the ground with an audible 'thump'. The world around her slowly returned in smudges of color, blurred edges as pain stung the bone within her cheek and just underneath her eye, jaw gaping open and then shut in total surprise. As if she were having trouble deciding whether to be quiet, or cry, a mixture of both seemed to compromise with eachother. Instead of wailing, she shuddered and held the afflicted cheek, eyes watering from pain, and fear of what was to come. Rocking back and forth agitatedly, gasping, but yet not breathing, the air had been stolen from her lungs with but a few simple words above. Cold. Harsh. Easily distinguishable from Wrenmae's tune of voice, it was Shroud. Throwing a rock, which had hit her companion in the head, had brought the accursed Shroud out. He easily pinned her down with a knee, little resistance on Ana's part. How could she? The world around her had slowed down, it was impossible to react in time. "P-please" she managed to stammer desperately before he gripped her mouth, the blood smearing itself on her face, an irony taste invaded her mouth making her gag. Shaking, and struggling to escape that hand. Whimpering underneath him, she felt a blade press against her throat. Words still ringing out, assaulting her ears with threat and terror, it was only natural that she squeezed her eyes shut tightly, expecting the worse to happen shortly. Her throat would be slit, she would be dead, and it was all her fault, all of it. From the very beginning. Ana shouldn't have thrown that rock, she shouldn't have followed after the taleweaver persona curiously. There was no one else to blame, but herself, and she knew that within the coming ticks of trickling fear. Everything was going to end, but it did not, instead Shroud's hand had left her mouth. Eyes cracking open a smidge to peek up at him, only for the blade to come crashing down across her forehead. She thought she might have just gone blind with pain, or from the quick to flow blood that seeped downwards and into her eye. Red dying her sight in a corner. Half screaming in surprise, the other half choking on itself to shut the other half up forcefully, it was an odd combination that resulted in weird errupting gurgles and whimpers. He was gone. Long gone. Up and moving away, he left her there laying in the streets grasping at the bleeding wound just trying to comprehend why this was happening to her. Why her? Why. The question was left unanswered, echoing itself in her mind. What had seemed to be an eternity, when Shroud had possibly been out of her reach, an ache began in her chest as she cryed and snivelled into the cold muddy ground. Her body hurt, as did her head, a pounding to her temples growing steadily stronger the longer she stayed there huddled on the ground. Only moving to glance up at the retreating feet, eyes widening, it was only then that a nagging fear appeared.. Ana didn't want to be alone, for after so long..So long of being.. alone.. Even if it meant living through Shroud's abuse. 'Wait' Ana mouthed the word silently out, trying to muster the will to speak and catch his attention. Nothing happened. 'Please' again she worded out without an audible syllabel, pushing her limbs into action, a slow, winded movement, body cold. Still nothing. Her arms pulled herself up, legs unfurling from their curled position to turn onto their knees, feet stepping uncertaintly on the ground to stumble after Shroud. Meekly, and timid, shoulders hunched as she covered the wound on her forehead to keep from bleeding. Eyes watering over, and nose dripping, she must have looked pathetic and pitiful, what continued to make Shroud spare her life? Maybe... He did like her, he needed her, but was too hard and cruel to display any action of acceptance or kindness. What if Wrenmae was inside that skull, the one she had struck with a rock accidently, maybe he was pulling strings when he could? Something had to be supressing him... But what? Ana continued to speculate, feet heavy, but generally quiet. She didn't want to alert him, didn't want to upset or anger him even further. The threat he had made earlier was still very fresh in her mind. But what was she to do when he re-entered the apartment, leaving her in the cold, what would she do then? Spasms of fear rippled through her form.