sound the bugle now

amalia chandrakant there is a color that shines through your skin Like the moon on the wind This is not what she expected. Still tired, still in tears, Amalia blinks at the figure's appearance, for a moment entirely lost and bemused. Her face falls slightly as realization hits her: this is Frey, the one god she never hoped to face, the one whose very name fills the baker with a deep, uncertain dread. Even the sensual tug she feels imbues her with unease, butterflies flip-flopping in her belly at the unfamiliar, yet not altogether unpleasant, sensation. Swallowing, Amalia bows her head, biting back the tears. She does not know what Frey will look like, does not want to know, in a way. Sex has never been her comfort area, her one experience with it having proven disastrous. But a deity is a deity, and the respect Amalia feels for the gods extends even to this one. "Ah..." she murmurs, glancing down at the head in her hand, before beginning to cough again. Catching her breath, she sets it down, her eyes still on the floor. "I'm sorry... I didn't know what to do with him. I couldn't leave him." Gingerly she places the severed head upon the grass, and turns enough to look at Frey's foot. "Frey... what should we do?" Frey had been her grandmother's favorite, fond as she was of love and growth. Now Amalia can only wish her grandmother were here to guide her. "What would Rae, and Mort and Vi, want?" the night is full on behalf or your evaded mask And the rings round your eyes

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