Amalia
the shield of safrin
Amalia is not one for winter, though the fur beneath her loose green coat and brown winter pants tells another story. Ears more leopard than human rest on her head, peeking out from under a thick wool hat that covers her plait. A long red scarf hangs half down her back, pinned in place by a crimson brooch. Not the most stylish denizen, perhaps, but the Shield cannot say she particularly cares.She is sitting off to the side of the market, having found a bench beneath a string of lights. Amalia does not love this place, but her grandmother certainly would. It's an object of the old woman's that the Shield holds between gloved fingers, a beautifully wrought golden comb that the Chandrakant matriarch wore daily in her hair. How long would it have taken Anjali to open a bakery here, determined to feed the denizens of Halo rich, comforting bread?
Sighing a breath of crystallized heat into the chilly air, Amalia raises her eyes from the comb to look back at the crowd. One figure in particular stands out to her, half familiar, half not: a collection of dark rags over a pale white form, the face as white as a winter moon.
For a moment she thinks it might be Ludo dancing among the living; then she blinks, and the illusion is broken, and the figure comes into focus. "Maea?" She wonders, probably too softly to be heard across the bustle of the square.
someday we'll find what we're looking for
or maybe not
maybe we'll find something much greater
