Amalia
the shield of safrin
Amalia, too, is walking the coast, enjoying the crash of the ocean, the sting of the breeze, the threat of the looming storm. There is something in the expansive nature of the sea that both frightens and enthralls her, makes her feel beautifully insignificant, as though if she lets the tide wash over her it will leave her as clean as the sand.
The sand is not clean today. It is muddled with footprints, the telltale signs of bare feet and damp toes, but the tide is coming in. There are people, too, or person, rather: a man sat just at the edge of the water, looking for all the world asleep. Amalia might have walked around him, left him to his own devices; indeed, she walks past, quiet yet attentive, intending to do just that.
But the tide is rising and the man is not moving, and as much as she would like to disappear into the ocean, she cannot allow that for him. Barefoot and quiet, the Shield changes trajectory, coming to a stop behind him (please wake up, please wake up) and softly clearing her throat.
"Sir? You should consider moving... the tide is coming in."
The sand is not clean today. It is muddled with footprints, the telltale signs of bare feet and damp toes, but the tide is coming in. There are people, too, or person, rather: a man sat just at the edge of the water, looking for all the world asleep. Amalia might have walked around him, left him to his own devices; indeed, she walks past, quiet yet attentive, intending to do just that.
But the tide is rising and the man is not moving, and as much as she would like to disappear into the ocean, she cannot allow that for him. Barefoot and quiet, the Shield changes trajectory, coming to a stop behind him (please wake up, please wake up) and softly clearing her throat.
"Sir? You should consider moving... the tide is coming in."
she is calm in the storm
and anxious in the quiet
and anxious in the quiet
