Weaver

A mystic, a story teller, and a visionary. The Weaver is a dangerous woman to be around, her magic is strong and her will is stronger. She can heal her friends from the back row then jump to the front with devastating magical attacks. She is small and weak, with low health, but is a deadly enemy.

 I, Jessica the Weaver, give onto you, the mice of Graywall Keep, these words. As I sleep a voice from outside time whispers thoughts to me. My dreams stir. I lay on my stomach as these words take shape in the dreams that I dream...
Blood drips down my thighs, the blood of motherhood. I find myself in a place I have not been, with companions I do not yet know. A white wolf is on my left, a lonely image of fatherhood brought low by five spirits. The ghosts grip him by the manhood, with their teeth pulling at him until he cries: a marsupial with one ear, her hands uniquely clean of guilt, a bat with hungry eyes, and a dove with bloodied feathers. My hands are pinned to my bosom. I have only the power to turn my eyes. Aloft, hanging in the sky, I can see one of the Great Old Things, its name I do not know. This tongue has not the words to describe the majesty that fills my eyes.
I lay atop a shadow cast by a monkey with a dark coat. The Great Old Thing breathes a labored breath, and the ground does moan. “At the Tree of Choice do you stand. And I ask onto you, is it best to give life or take life?”
The dark-coated monkey stands to quake before, at last, words should find the monkey’s lips “I give you back your life, that you may take life from me and let the ring of rebirth grow.”
With those words now, I can see the blood of motherhood drip down the thighs of the monkey, and the Great Old Thing has vanished from our eyes. The monkey folds it’s arms, cradling it’s chest.
Then the sky should open, and a clockwork angel spreads its grace onto the earth. The natural stands in opposition to the unnatural. The clockwork angel holds out a threatening hand. “You have taken onto yourself that which should not be. Life is death, and now you must stand at the tree of life and death. You wish to give your life? I will take it.”
The monkey is filled with the life, the eyes of mortal lock with the eyes of god, and the monkey stands with arms wide. The sword of judgment finds the hands of the machine. Now my eyes grow dim; I can see no more. The screaming hammering metal forces my ears to fold. A phrase is repeated twelve times as a bell rings. It is like a church being called to mass. “I am me!” The voice cries eleven times; yet on the twelfth, the phrase does change most unexpectedly “I am still me!”
The Great Old Thing whispers with a dying breath, “Before this is over, you shall be just what I am.” A reminder; words that will be spoken many a time. It pleads “The Lonely Star, I have tried many a times to go there; but these feet will not take another step.” Disjointed thoughts and ideas, a feeling of ideal grief. I feel the thoughts of one that is not myself. A call to action will be heard, far before the meaning will be laid bare.These words and images I will carry with me as I walk across the land. I will seek out song singers and soothsayers, wizards and fellow weavers. I will speak these words in hushed tones in the hopes that my eyes will soon open. Now I must lay this pen to the side. My children wake, and my love soon should be home. I have done my deeds today as a storyteller, now I must do my works as a mother.