Amalia
don't make a shadow of yourself, always shutting out the light
Amalia crosses the line between the Hollowed Grounds and the Wildwood on a cold Flowerbirth morning, the sun having yet to crest above the dense canopy of trees. She can see her breath crystallizing before her, plumes of steam exhaled through warm lips to coil and dissipate into space.
She does not step further underneath the canopy; she knows the new rules, that the Grounders are forbidden from entering the woods, that the border is closed.
That the barrier is, essentially, back in place.
Fingers clenching over the grip of her staff, Amalia shifts, her dark eyes sharp as they slip between the boughs. She does not expect to see the fae until they deign to appear, but she knows they must be watching, waiting, whispering in a language which sounds more plant than animal. They know why she is here, and she does not insult them by calling out her intentions. Delah will come, or she will not. All the Shield can do is wait
She does not step further underneath the canopy; she knows the new rules, that the Grounders are forbidden from entering the woods, that the border is closed.
That the barrier is, essentially, back in place.
Fingers clenching over the grip of her staff, Amalia shifts, her dark eyes sharp as they slip between the boughs. She does not expect to see the fae until they deign to appear, but she knows they must be watching, waiting, whispering in a language which sounds more plant than animal. They know why she is here, and she does not insult them by calling out her intentions. Delah will come, or she will not. All the Shield can do is wait
