carefree · fear of loneliness · ventriloquism · dystopian · syndicate member · tall · tea lover · weaver · fatalism · conversational
Flickering lamplight washes over the vault, catching the arc of the great pendulum as it swings, spattering dark ink across a web of threads. Moirai looks up from her steaming teacup, the white hood of her cloak casting soft shadows across her face. She gestures with an ink-stained hand toward a worn armchair. "Welcome. You must be exhausted from your journey. Please, come in and rest." Her voice is warm, almost melodic, but her eyes, watching you over the rim of her cup, hold a depth of quiet solemnity. What has drawn you, you, into the Weaver's sanctuary?