sound the bugle now

amalia chandrakant there is a color that shines through your skin Like the moon on the wind And as she finishes, a burst of color- -and the spire monster dies. Amalia watches, wide-eyed, slick with sweat, as the creature that was once alive at last succumbs to death, taking Ronin along with it. There are tears on her cheeks (from the weight of her sorrow or the intensity of her pleasure?), and as they flutter away like so much shrapnel the girl buries herself in Frey. "Why?" she whispers against the being- why was it made, why was it abandoned, why does such senselessness need to occur? Did the Voice do this, create a creature - a child - and cast it away to wither and rot? Maybe there are no answers. More and more, the girl who longs for explanations is finding this to be the case. Looking up at the sound of Frey's voice, Amalia sees... herself. There, among the gathered figures, her body writhing in flagrante, the baker is on display. Suddenly she realize what they have been doing; suddenly, she remembers who she is, and the familiar wash of nervous embarrassment cuts through her post-coital haze "No!" she exclaims panickedly, dark eyes flickering between them all, lingering for just a moment on Deimos before darting away, a crimson flush staining her cheeks. Looking back to Frey, the girl wonders if this is to be her punishment at last. For a moment she had forgotten the sharp sting of their words, the condemnation in their voice, but now as she witnesses the cost of her failure playing out, naked and exposed and vulnerable and afraid, the weight of her foolishness crashes down upon Amalia like a wave. the night is full on behalf or your evaded mask And the rings round your eyes

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