Grigore found me clothes and a place to bathe away the dirt and old blood as quickly as possible, which I was thankful for. My feet were rough from the cold by the time we reached a town with a bathhouse and trader. I was glad to be warm again; legs nestled by woollen stockings, my body held by petticoats, a grey smock and a deep red kirtle and my shoulders draped in a rough cloak. The shoes however felt a little odd. He'd insisted on something sturdy and thick, not the thin shoes I'd been wearing before, and made me feel oddly weighted. Still, my feet no longer hurt and warmed rapidly. He simply grunted at my thanks and armed himself with his cloak again, urging me to continue hurriedly.
We continued west and then north at a rapid pace by foot. Grigore paid no attention to the coaches that trundled passed or were awaiting passengers in the towns we strode through, and he ignored the powerful steeds for sale in stables on the outskirts of these towns. I didn't understand, thinking maybe it was simply because he hadn't the money, until we found a rider later. The stranger was quite content letting the horse he rode trundle along the side of the road at its own slow pace. This horse was content and calm, up until Grigore was passing it. Suddenly its eyes widened and it reared back violently, pawing it the air wildly as it screamed in fear. The rider was thrown from the horse's back and landed onto the wet muddy road with a hefty thud. The horse then bolted and charged off down the road. The rider swore savagely at Grigore, instantly recognising him as a Weaver, and ignored all offers of help from me in reclaiming the horse. He stormed off down the road in search of his missing steed while Grigore grunted and continued on his way, muttering darkly under his breath. I was quiet about the incident and soon came to realise that domesticated animals seemed to shy away from him, always turning in the opposite direction or simply moving as far from him as possible. When I asked, Grigore simply said they didn't like his magic.
So by foot we followed these dirt roads that connected towns and villages together for several days. Sometimes we ventured through woodland, sometimes through open plains of grass that reached my waist. But we the pace never slowed and we rarely stopped; only when we needed sleep or Grigore wanted to hunt us food. I forced myself to keep up but it was hard. Grigore's legs were long and used to walking such great distances while mine were short and plump with barely any real strength in them. I could feel them burning constantly, both while I walked and while I slept. I was thankful though that Grigore seemed to notice my discomfort and grudgingly set up camp for me to rest in the early evening on most days. I wondered how long he would go on walking if it wasn't for me though.
Sometimes I would speak to him, asking where we were and to give me an idea of how far he intended to go, how long he thought it would be until he found a job. He told me that most of the jobs open to him were completed now, having travelled this same road well over a week before and had backtracked to keep me from being eaten. Again, he added quite firmly. I felt a little guilty for this. He seemed to be in such a rush. This was something else I asked him, why he seemed to be rushing somewhere, but the question was ignored. He simply glowered at the flames and either changed the subject or fell broodingly silent. I learnt rapidly not to ask where we were going or what he was going. It seemed to only put him in a bad mood and clearly didn't trust me enough to be open about it. I didn't blame him. I was a total stranger still.
Through our first week together, we got on reasonably enough, which surprised me after our first meetings. He had been fairly open to me; teaching me about herbs, how to skin a rabbit, telling me how to haggle properly when he watched me fail to buy meat for a decent price or answering whatever pointless question that came into my head. I learnt what dire wolf prints looked like, which stars to follow to stop myself getting lost, how to cook out in the open and prepare a fire. In return, I'd repair his clothes sometimes, despite him stating he could do it himself.

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The Weaver's Source
FantasyLyra has been waiting for her Weaver to find her for years, unable to leave the safety of her home and only connected to him through passionate dreams - remembering nothing about him apart from his wild, sensual song. When the lone Weaver Grigore f...