Amalia
She has fallen out of practice.
Maybe it is the loss of her mother's staff, or the binding of the antlers to her own. Maybe it is the busyness of the season, the stress of running a shop and building relationships. Maybe it is the loss of her mother, her trainer, their weekly sparring matches the only tenuous bond they shared after her grandmother died.
Maybe it is the fact that each time she has tried to fight something, she has wound up at its mercy, waiting for rescue from someone else.
Amalia is dressed simply. Her tight black tunic shows a mottling of torn claw scars across her shoulder, silver against sun-tanned skin; her hair is raised in a messy bun, another scar revealed upon her neck. The wiry muscles which were once well-defined are diminished, not yet having recovered from the onslaught of Edrei's wrath. Between her hands a slender staff is gently spun and tossed in a rusty warm-up routine. Watch your feet, the girl can hear, a sharp instruction from an alto voice. Balance. Breathe.
Begin.
Maybe it is the loss of her mother's staff, or the binding of the antlers to her own. Maybe it is the busyness of the season, the stress of running a shop and building relationships. Maybe it is the loss of her mother, her trainer, their weekly sparring matches the only tenuous bond they shared after her grandmother died.
Maybe it is the fact that each time she has tried to fight something, she has wound up at its mercy, waiting for rescue from someone else.
Amalia is dressed simply. Her tight black tunic shows a mottling of torn claw scars across her shoulder, silver against sun-tanned skin; her hair is raised in a messy bun, another scar revealed upon her neck. The wiry muscles which were once well-defined are diminished, not yet having recovered from the onslaught of Edrei's wrath. Between her hands a slender staff is gently spun and tossed in a rusty warm-up routine. Watch your feet, the girl can hear, a sharp instruction from an alto voice. Balance. Breathe.
Begin.
