Oi Lifeweaver, have you ever weaved anything other than life?
Have you ever tried weaving linen for example?
Somewhere long ago, somewhere warmer and kinder, night was beginning to fall. In some parts of Sol, this was a time of fear; when one locked their doors and shut their eyes and awaited the return of the sacred sun. For those of the Moon? Not so much. It was celebration-worthy! Or, for one High Priest in particular, time to do his job.
"Your omnipotence," repeated the tenrec, adjusting himself to stand up a little bit straighter. Imagine making your way into your god-king's chambers, past the spooky flickering braziers, past the reverent murals of people in deep prayer, to find him all splayed out on his ominous stone throne with... "Are those knitting needles?"
"Hm? Oh! Yes." Boyish cheer at noticing his long-suffering attendant, but he did not deign to stop using his chair as an impromptu bed while working. The black-furred feline set himself up a little straighter after he realized he was being stared at. It was quite the sight to see... Well, how little there was to see of The Lifeweaver. A tuxedo cat was how most people would describe him. Inky black, a plume of white going down his chest. The sharp angular lines drawn upon the black sections, apparently representing constellations, were at least a nice touch.
"Would... Weaving not be a little more befitting your status, my lord? Would you like me to procure you a loom?" The high priest did not "caution" to say this so much as "labor," because even before the words were out of his mouth, he knew that the Lifeweaver was queuing up something very silly.
"No, no. It'd just take up too much space. Can you imagine, a loom in a throne room?" He waved a hand across his chambers, fingers not stopping to pause over all the random half-finished paintings, strange-shaped earthenware cluttering tables and filling corners, potted plants of all shapes and sizes which the Lifeweaver quite dutifully tended to daily... Oh, no. Not more clutter! Anything but that.
All types of art. He loved art, and he surrounded himself with it. And while one might think it anathema and blasphemy to tell him that he had never been terribly good at most of it, the majority of Lifeweaver's clergy avoided doing so because... Well, it's just plain mean to tell someone that, isn't it? Sheesh.
"And besides, it's more personal to knit when it's going to be a gift for someone. Have a looksee!" The god of life itself, originator of all that walked and talked and took in breath, held up what by all accounts was a very crudely crafted winter scarf. Not the first attempt, surely, not that bad; more akin to what someone might have attempted to make on their second or third. A little bit too long, a little bit too broad. The high priest looked between it and the god with a deep-set frown.
"A valiant attempt, Your Magnificence. And am I to assume you are making it for...Her?"
His emerald eyes flickered up to the high priest away from his work, and then back down at what he had been piecing together. Then there was a blush: "Is it that obvious...? I just figured, it was, um. Yes. It's for Worldpainter."
"My Grace, we have been bitter rivals of the Tribe of the Sun for hundreds of years." Dryly.
"That's not entirely inaccurate." Shyly.
"You consider her to be a traitor, and her ideals, anathema." Even dryer.
"I, uh... Well, when you put it that way..." Even shyer.
"And you are making her a scarf."
"It gets cold sometimes!" The feline huffed, almost dropping his work as he went to indignantly cross his arms. He just ended up poking himself in the bicep with a knitting needle and yelping.
"I would never question your wisdom, Your Magnificence. If you wish to create a gift for your bitter rival, far be it from me to stop you." This did very little to allay Lifeweaver's sulky pouting. "But if I may make a suggestion? The end of it is very pretty, but you may want to think about who you're making it for."
Lifeweaver stared dumbly, first at his attendant and then down at his scarf, fingertips tracing down along its royal purple surface to find what the man was referring to: a lovingly knitted representation of the crescent moon. He frowned: "But... It's a moon. The moon is a wonderful thing! Who wouldn't want a pretty little moon on their scarf?"
"...Were I forced to hazard a guess, my first would be the Goddess of the Sun."
A very long pause. And then the god sighed and rapped himself in the forehead with his own knuckles: "What a fool I can be sometimes. Almost enough of one to believe that Worldpainter is right. Almost. My good man, would you please fetch me some orange dye?"
Thousands of years had passed. Perhaps not a lot in the perspective of a god, but who knew how many generations had come and gone? Worldpainter watched Surge wander around her modest hut, picking through oodles of assorted knick-knacks accumulated over many (sometimes-merry) centuries.
"Nice place you got, Granny." The tenrec said, flicking a great big portrait of what looked like a long-gone ancestor of Blaze the Cat. Easy to tell, it just looked like her with a handlebar moustache. Quite the fashion statement.
"It isn't much, I suppose. Certainly not fit to work as any sort of home base for anything. But it'll do for now. Just try not to knock over any-" She couldn't even finish the sentence before the tenrec turned a little too sharply, the sheath of her sword sending a small arrangement of handmade baskets spilling to the ground.
"Oops! Eh, at least it wasn't anything breakable." Worldpainter let out a labored sigh at this terribly lame reaction, even as Surge politely bent over to begin to pick things up, and-
The corrupted, swirling voice came from the sword at Surge's hip. She sat up, confused, and followed her eyes to where Worldpainter was already looking. The old tenrec squinted and then realized what Lifeweaver had seen. She swore under her breath. It was okay; she used her own name in vain.
"You... Kept? It?" Lifeweaver burbled, actually sounding mildly shocked. Surge approached what appeared to be a ratty old wool scarf hanging from a bent coat rack, which had been hidden away. Long, royal purple, ending in fringe. The end of one side sported a faded image of a crescent moon, the other, a bright orange sun.
"I... it..." Worldpainter murmured and then huffed, looking away. "It gets cold sometimes!"
Surge looked between her weapon and the old tenrec a few times before shaking her head. She had no idea what any of this meant, or why both of them were making an embarrassed muttering sound in near-unison. And, to be honest? She kinda didn't wanna know.
"Old people are weird as hell."
