Amalia
Amalia rolls her eyes as Roana rebuts her statement again, once more putting words into silence, projecting a strange delusion of conclusions onto something the girl did not say. She tilts her head, irritated and bewildered, wondering if the woman could hear herself speak. Could she truly be so self-involved, so trapped in her own grandiose reality in which she is a victim of everyone?
As though she were important enough for that.
Amalia is not accustomed to cruelty. She does not often hate. But oh, the leopardess has a dormant temper, a wildness which tears and snarls and snaps. "You do not think you wronged anyone," the baker points out, still bemused by the strange reality that Roana seems to have invented in her head. "But if you want to fight me, fine. It certainly seems like your one move."
Her grandmother would slap her. Her mother would cheer. And Amalia? Amalia raises her staff in her hands, swinging it down in a sudden strike, her bare feet anchored in the ground by claws, a leopard's snarl on her lips.
As though she were important enough for that.
Amalia is not accustomed to cruelty. She does not often hate. But oh, the leopardess has a dormant temper, a wildness which tears and snarls and snaps. "You do not think you wronged anyone," the baker points out, still bemused by the strange reality that Roana seems to have invented in her head. "But if you want to fight me, fine. It certainly seems like your one move."
Her grandmother would slap her. Her mother would cheer. And Amalia? Amalia raises her staff in her hands, swinging it down in a sudden strike, her bare feet anchored in the ground by claws, a leopard's snarl on her lips.
