Amalia
the shield of safrin
Amalia hates the labyrinth.
She hates a lot of places these days. Unblighted, the baker nonetheless feels the weight of it in the air like smoke, a suffocating darkness that threatens to collapse down upon them, crushing hearts and lungs. The night at Safrin's shrine left her drained, and even days later the effects still linger, a listlessness draped across her shoulders much like a burial shroud.
She chooses the labyrinth because it is easy to be lost in, because she might be trapped for hours, isolated and insulated from the rest of the world. She may hate this place but at least it is quiet, no need for false smiles and glib reassurance, no room for her to try and fail. The baker needs to find her purpose, to center herself- and though she bears not love for violence, training has always calmed her mind.
She is dressed in black, a surprisingly light outfit until one notices the fur beneath, covering everything but her face. Her hair is pulled into a high tail, to keep from getting in her eyes. The Luxere staff grasped in her hands, Amalia exhales a long slow breath, rising it up in a ready position and adjusting her feet carefully. She has been practicing with the shield, too, strapped to her left forearm, lessons from Diemos to improve her technique. Inhaling, Amalia closes her eyes - then exhales again, bringing the length of antlers and wood down hard, her frustrated translated clearly in the move.
She hates a lot of places these days. Unblighted, the baker nonetheless feels the weight of it in the air like smoke, a suffocating darkness that threatens to collapse down upon them, crushing hearts and lungs. The night at Safrin's shrine left her drained, and even days later the effects still linger, a listlessness draped across her shoulders much like a burial shroud.
She chooses the labyrinth because it is easy to be lost in, because she might be trapped for hours, isolated and insulated from the rest of the world. She may hate this place but at least it is quiet, no need for false smiles and glib reassurance, no room for her to try and fail. The baker needs to find her purpose, to center herself- and though she bears not love for violence, training has always calmed her mind.
She is dressed in black, a surprisingly light outfit until one notices the fur beneath, covering everything but her face. Her hair is pulled into a high tail, to keep from getting in her eyes. The Luxere staff grasped in her hands, Amalia exhales a long slow breath, rising it up in a ready position and adjusting her feet carefully. She has been practicing with the shield, too, strapped to her left forearm, lessons from Diemos to improve her technique. Inhaling, Amalia closes her eyes - then exhales again, bringing the length of antlers and wood down hard, her frustrated translated clearly in the move.
you are slowly growing
but you are still growing
and that is enough
