this pair of wings worn and rusted from too many years by my side
Amalia has never been more grateful for the ability to partially shift than she is today. Summer comes everywhere but Halo, it seems; the land remains cloaked in snow and dismal chill, the white coating bright and painful in the never-setting sun. Amalia trudges through it with a quiet determination, stubbornly dragging her sled of supplies.
She reaches the citadel in the hazy half-twilight that constitutes nighttime in this hell. A series of questions lead her to her quarry, though she's warned that the Grand Healer rather isn't in a state for guests. Undeterred the Shield pushes forward, nodding curtly in gratitude and opening the door.
"Loren?" She's hopeful that it isn't that. That he's having a bad day. This will be a whole lot harder if she has to fight him to get him cured.
She reaches the citadel in the hazy half-twilight that constitutes nighttime in this hell. A series of questions lead her to her quarry, though she's warned that the Grand Healer rather isn't in a state for guests. Undeterred the Shield pushes forward, nodding curtly in gratitude and opening the door.
"Loren?" She's hopeful that it isn't that. That he's having a bad day. This will be a whole lot harder if she has to fight him to get him cured.
