Amalia
the shield of safrin
some birds sing when the sun shines bright
She is fresh from the Climb and feeling well, stronger and safer than she has in months. Cured, truly cured, a miraculous thing- and despite her difficult encounter with Deimos, the fight in the cavern, the awkward talk with Loren, Amalia feels good.
So it is with some unusual amount of amusement that she spots the massive creature she's heard through the grapevine to be Sunjata, sitting atop the bluffs the Shield (for now) calls home. He's hard to miss, massive beast that he is, and the Aumakua isn't large. Amalia has stepped out into the bright light of day with lantern materials in hand, the seasonal task a familiar one, and almost a balm to her grief.
She considers walking another way and ultimately decides against, shrugging her shoulders and squaring her jaw. Their last encounter had been... civil, and she is trying to smooth her abrasive edges, to let go of her judgments and wrath. Besides, it isn't every day that one gets to watch a massive dragon construct a delicate lamp. Settling into the grass near the Flood, Amalia raises an eyebrow in silent question before extracting her own frame: copper wire, soon to be wrapped in crimson silk, the colors of a Harpy with a heart of fire.
So it is with some unusual amount of amusement that she spots the massive creature she's heard through the grapevine to be Sunjata, sitting atop the bluffs the Shield (for now) calls home. He's hard to miss, massive beast that he is, and the Aumakua isn't large. Amalia has stepped out into the bright light of day with lantern materials in hand, the seasonal task a familiar one, and almost a balm to her grief.
She considers walking another way and ultimately decides against, shrugging her shoulders and squaring her jaw. Their last encounter had been... civil, and she is trying to smooth her abrasive edges, to let go of her judgments and wrath. Besides, it isn't every day that one gets to watch a massive dragon construct a delicate lamp. Settling into the grass near the Flood, Amalia raises an eyebrow in silent question before extracting her own frame: copper wire, soon to be wrapped in crimson silk, the colors of a Harpy with a heart of fire.
our praise is not for them,
but the ones who sing in the dead of night
but the ones who sing in the dead of night
