On Broken Wings

She's imperfect, but she tries She is good, but she lies She is hard on herself She is broken and won't ask for help The fox is not alone for long. Perhaps it is random fortune, perhaps intention on the gryphon's part: either way, Amalia recognizes Isuma right away, her white form easy for the girl to distinguish among the black dust that surrounds the ruined Spire. She is here in search of answers, as always, scoping out the track for their upcoming descent, the venture in to rescue all that may remain beneath. But there is something in the gryphlet's earnest and frantic chirping which draws her away from her studious task, concern lacing her brows together, a sudden fear tightening in her chest. Jigano? She follows Isuma: what else is she to do? With steadily mounting anxiety the girl pursues the frantic chick, Jyoti a starlit flood in their wake, cooing a soothing song to her friend. When they breach the trees Amalia stops, her dark eyes searching for the familiar shock of white hair, the figure of the bard she holds so dear. "Jigano?" she calls softly into the shadows, concern raising leopard fur upon her neck. Stepping carefully among the grass, she almost misses his coiled form. It is only Isuma's frantic peeping which draws her eyes to the snowy fox, a sharp inhalation on her lips at the sight of him, coiled and curled in obvious despair. Falling to her knees, the baker reaches out to run a hand gently over his back, concern and heartache and a protective fear blooming in her breast. "Jigano, what happened?" A million scenarios stumble through her mind (Are you hurt? Is it Rory?), but her dulcet voice stays almost calm, a soothing alto in the summer air. Again she moves to stroke his spine, concern coming off of her in waves. "It's going to be okay," she promises, ardent despite not knowing what is wrong, as much for herself as the silver fox. Whatever it is, it will be okay. It has to be. She does not have room in her soul, for anything else to go wrong. a m a l i a She is messy, but she's kind She is lonely most of the time She is all of this mixed up and baked in a beautiful pie She is gone, but she used to be mine