Amalia
the archangel
"I don't know about guidance," Amalia responds with an embarrassed grimace, rolling her shoulders in a shrug. The flicker of insincerity in Arialla's voice is unexpected, and the Angel doesn't know the young priestess well enough to tell if she imagined it. But the moment fades into deeper shadow, and any doubt fades away, replaced with empathy and sorrow.
The weight of Arialla's experience sits on Amalia's heart like a stone. "I can imagine," she murmurs softly, extending a hand to brush against the redhead's arm, Attuned bond bright with empathy. "Thank the Gods Gideon was there. Do... Do you want to talk about it?"
The weight of Arialla's experience sits on Amalia's heart like a stone. "I can imagine," she murmurs softly, extending a hand to brush against the redhead's arm, Attuned bond bright with empathy. "Thank the Gods Gideon was there. Do... Do you want to talk about it?"
she is calm in the storm
and anxious in the quiet
and anxious in the quiet
