Amalia
she was afraid of heights
Amalia, too, has come to pray, a familiar ritual for the pious girl, though one that has changed over the years. Or rather, the location has shifted- when once she made daily trips to the Temple, now she finds herself spending more time in the fields, or laying down her evening absolution in the shrine within her home. Rarely does she find the opportunity to return to this place these days, but when she does it feels like coming home. Here she was blessed to be Attuned by Safrin. Here she was given a future from Ludo. Here she was graced with the presence of Vi.
And what has she done with all these blessings, Amalia wonders as she enters the building, her head bowed reverently in the hallowed halls. Would Vi feel his faith in her rewarded, or has she squandered the grace put on her shoulders, proven herself lesser than she dreamed she might be?
Lately it feels more like the latter. Were she not so faithful, she may even believe her gods have made a mistake.
She does not expect to see Loren here. At their last encounter the Abandoned spoke with some trepidation of the gods; she had not taken him for the type to pray, to kneel at the altars of the Old Ones whom she loves. Amalia greets the mage with a somewhat puzzled smile, tilting her head in silent greeting, her dark eyes soft as she looks upon the man. "Hello, Loren," the Shield says softly, stopping a comfortable distance from him, her breath coiling white as it leaves her lips. "Come to pray?"
And what has she done with all these blessings, Amalia wonders as she enters the building, her head bowed reverently in the hallowed halls. Would Vi feel his faith in her rewarded, or has she squandered the grace put on her shoulders, proven herself lesser than she dreamed she might be?
Lately it feels more like the latter. Were she not so faithful, she may even believe her gods have made a mistake.
She does not expect to see Loren here. At their last encounter the Abandoned spoke with some trepidation of the gods; she had not taken him for the type to pray, to kneel at the altars of the Old Ones whom she loves. Amalia greets the mage with a somewhat puzzled smile, tilting her head in silent greeting, her dark eyes soft as she looks upon the man. "Hello, Loren," the Shield says softly, stopping a comfortable distance from him, her breath coiling white as it leaves her lips. "Come to pray?"
but she was much more afraid
of never flying
