born from dark water, daughter of the rain and snow
She's been thinking about him for days now, and not in a good way.
Ever since Phoebe told her the truth, Amalia has been positively burning with anger. Literally, at this point: it whips like fire around her hair, leaves beads of sweat on her forehead. LongHeat has come and brought with it the scorching sun, furiously bright and deliciously clear.
Of course, he's still hiding from it.
She'd thought he'd be gone by now, back to wherever he came from. Another lie, which shouldn't surprise her at this point. So now here she is, thundering into the inn like a woman on fire, a sword in one hand, a shield in the other, and stretching out from between her scapulae are wings-
(is what she thinks she looks like. In actuality Amalia is less on fire and more very peaked, gold hair damp and plastered to her neck, a large pot lid in one hand, a baguette in the other. She doesn't have wings, either, but gods does her back itch. So same difference, really.)
"FINN ROSE... ROSEINPANTS!" the Shield bellows, knocking in his door with a surprising display of force, while somewhere behind her the flabbergasted innkeeper lets out a startled squeak. "You lying, lying... liarman!" The last word is punctuated by an accusatory jab from her sword-loaf, not anywhere near him but enough to make her point.
Ever since Phoebe told her the truth, Amalia has been positively burning with anger. Literally, at this point: it whips like fire around her hair, leaves beads of sweat on her forehead. LongHeat has come and brought with it the scorching sun, furiously bright and deliciously clear.
Of course, he's still hiding from it.
She'd thought he'd be gone by now, back to wherever he came from. Another lie, which shouldn't surprise her at this point. So now here she is, thundering into the inn like a woman on fire, a sword in one hand, a shield in the other, and stretching out from between her scapulae are wings-
(is what she thinks she looks like. In actuality Amalia is less on fire and more very peaked, gold hair damp and plastered to her neck, a large pot lid in one hand, a baguette in the other. She doesn't have wings, either, but gods does her back itch. So same difference, really.)
"FINN ROSE... ROSEINPANTS!" the Shield bellows, knocking in his door with a surprising display of force, while somewhere behind her the flabbergasted innkeeper lets out a startled squeak. "You lying, lying... liarman!" The last word is punctuated by an accusatory jab from her sword-loaf, not anywhere near him but enough to make her point.
shield of safrin
