[Seasonal Event] no spring skips its turn

Amalia Still sitting on a shelf and never Never seen the sun shine brighter Amalia snaps up again at the offer of another sliver of meat, her great body springing lightly into the air as Deimos tosses the food. Swallowing it down, she licks her lips, watching intently as he reaches back into the sled. When he emerges with branches her interest wanes, an expression of feline disdain crossing her face. Leopard she may be, but she is not a child, to be easily entertained by swaying leaves, though she is both amused and touched by the gesture. Like her, he seems a different creature: lighter, less restrained, the glacial frost melting to reveal more of the heart within. It excites and bewilders the gentle girl, and she aches at once to push him further while fearing what further may ultimately mean. When Deimos stands Amalia follows, curious, a shadow to the behemoth of a man. Is he leaving? she wonders, and tries to ignore the cold stab that strikes her at that thought. But no- he rounds to the other side of the building and draws to a stop. Amalia, too, pauses her approach, some steps away, watching with interest as the man proceeds. The way he regards her is both exciting and upsetting: as much as the idea of being feared intoxicates, she does not wish to be viewed with distrust... least of all by him. For a moment she considers shifting, revealing herself to her visitor- but she has gone too far, given too much, and the cruel anxiety which bites at her lungs blooms bright at the prospect - nay, inevitability - of his rejection. So Amalia does not become herself, but stays the version which is braver, and draws near to the man. The thing in her chest warms again as he kneels down to dig. Why is he doing this? Why for her? He probably does it for all his friends, she reasons in desperate attempt to quell that thing which fiercely, protectively, wants to find meaning in the kindly act. Purring loudly so as not to startle, Amalia approaches the warrior again, wanting, if not to thank, then at least to help. The large, soft head reaches out, cold nose seeking his hand to gently push the spade away. Crouching down beside the hole, Amalia regards Deimos with a plaintive "Mrrow?" before beginning, if he has moved sufficiently away, to dig, her sharp claws and broad paws making easy work of the soft, spring earth. And it feels like me on a good day