Amalia
the shield of safrin
Amalia has the good grace to flush as he reminds her of the unicorn horn already on the counter, and long since forgotten as her mind has tried to compartmentalize and keep from imploding with awkward discomfort. "Right. Sorry. Thank you." Slender fingers grasp the horn, tucking it back into her bag. There's a measure of relief in her expression now that one part of her task is complete.
It is a relief which changes swiftly, from concern to alarm and flashing anger as Loren explains the offer that the Voice made. Straightening abruptly, Amalia grabs the arms of her chair with enough strength to make the wood creak, her body suddenly taut as a bow. "Why?" she asks, half wary growl, half hissed indignation, her dark eyes sharp as they dance over the Firebrand as though in search of signs of corruption that might disrupt his form.
It is a relief which changes swiftly, from concern to alarm and flashing anger as Loren explains the offer that the Voice made. Straightening abruptly, Amalia grabs the arms of her chair with enough strength to make the wood creak, her body suddenly taut as a bow. "Why?" she asks, half wary growl, half hissed indignation, her dark eyes sharp as they dance over the Firebrand as though in search of signs of corruption that might disrupt his form.
she's just like the weather
can't hold her together
can't hold her together
