Amalia
She swing, and then-
Whump!
The staff hits shoulder, and Amalia gasps, nearly dropping it in surprise. There is no defense, no movement, only a wince from the woman as she lets the blow drop onto bone. Amalia had swung hard, anticipating some sort of response; she steps back now, appalled and surprised, her fury momentarily abated by the knowledge that she may have done some harm. "Are you okay?" the baker asks, "I'm sorry, I thought-"
Oh.
Oh.
What game is she playing? What is her goal? Calm as a cucumber, Roana replies with advice on how to hurt her further, as though she wants to make Amalia strike, to be the backwoods barbarian that the woman seems to believe them to be. And oh, the girl wants to, to take the condescending, stuck-up, holier-than-thou woman's neck in her teeth, thrash her on the ground like a rag-doll until that smug expression leaves her face. Inhaling deeply, teeth clenched in perplexed rage, the girl releases a silent prayer: Safrin, Vi, give me patience, help me to be calm. "Why didn't you block?" Amalia grinds out, circling around the woman slowly, her staff raised slightly in a defensive stance. "Do you think this makes you better than me? That being a fucking martyr absolves you of your sins?"
The claws on her fingers lengthen further; the fur now covers much of her back, extending into a tail. She snarls, and it is a leopard's snarl, rounded teeth pulled back in frustration. "What do you want? Forgiveness? Friendship? An apology? For me to say you're right?" Darting forward, Amalia swings low, aiming to knock the woman off her feet and end this farce once and for all. If there was ever a chance of reconciliation, it vanished as soon as Roana did not block, proving her contempt and lack of respect by refusing to so much as behave in sport.
Whump!
The staff hits shoulder, and Amalia gasps, nearly dropping it in surprise. There is no defense, no movement, only a wince from the woman as she lets the blow drop onto bone. Amalia had swung hard, anticipating some sort of response; she steps back now, appalled and surprised, her fury momentarily abated by the knowledge that she may have done some harm. "Are you okay?" the baker asks, "I'm sorry, I thought-"
Oh.
Oh.
What game is she playing? What is her goal? Calm as a cucumber, Roana replies with advice on how to hurt her further, as though she wants to make Amalia strike, to be the backwoods barbarian that the woman seems to believe them to be. And oh, the girl wants to, to take the condescending, stuck-up, holier-than-thou woman's neck in her teeth, thrash her on the ground like a rag-doll until that smug expression leaves her face. Inhaling deeply, teeth clenched in perplexed rage, the girl releases a silent prayer: Safrin, Vi, give me patience, help me to be calm. "Why didn't you block?" Amalia grinds out, circling around the woman slowly, her staff raised slightly in a defensive stance. "Do you think this makes you better than me? That being a fucking martyr absolves you of your sins?"
The claws on her fingers lengthen further; the fur now covers much of her back, extending into a tail. She snarls, and it is a leopard's snarl, rounded teeth pulled back in frustration. "What do you want? Forgiveness? Friendship? An apology? For me to say you're right?" Darting forward, Amalia swings low, aiming to knock the woman off her feet and end this farce once and for all. If there was ever a chance of reconciliation, it vanished as soon as Roana did not block, proving her contempt and lack of respect by refusing to so much as behave in sport.
