Amalia
she was afraid of heights
Remarkably, they come, expected and unexpected, welcome and surprise. Amalia greets them all in turn, with hands and words and nods, a little less effluvient than normal, thoughtful and withdrawn. A nod at Wessex's suggestion: the evening has been spent in thought of just that, and while she is grateful for the offer of support, she knows it has to be her. The baker called this meeting, and it is in her house. She has put herself in the position of responsibility. She will not shirk that now.
When it appears no others are soon to arrive, Amalia clears her throat. Squeezing Deimos' hand briefly, the quiet baker rises to her feet, looking at those assembled with dark and glittering eyes. "Thank you for coming," she murmurs, her low voice faltering with anxiety at being placed in charge. Swallowing, the quiet baker continues, a little stronger now. "We know why we're here. We're all, ah, unhappy, with recent events." A bit of wry humor; she raises an eyebrow at the understatement, coloring a little as she recalls being the one most visibly enraged. "But... There's no point in going over all that tonight. The reason we're here is to decide what to do next."
She pauses a moment to allow any to protest, her right hand rising to rub her left arm, an anxious moment as she awaits the inevitable doubt, the cries to sit down and let the grown-ups speak. But as her wide gaze skims across this crowd, Amalia feels a strange surge of confidence, trust in most of the people within. Jyoti stays by the girl's shoulder, a soothing beacon in this tense time, ready to ignite in starlight should tempers begin to rise. "As cowardly as she may be, Zariah is right about some things. We can't keep going the way we have, not with the world growing bigger all the time. And we can't keep drawing lines between ourselves. We... we need to become a community. United. But that doesn't mean we should let a tyrant decide how we should build it." Anger glimmers in her voice, a dangerous silver edge. The beginning of claws appear on her fingers, and Amalia inhales deeply, trying to keep the leopardess under control.
Dropping her gaze, the baker swallows once again, trying to keep the tremor of memory out of her voice. "My... my grandmother was a leader, of sorts, in our community. Not in any official way, but... she used to say that to keep a place healthy, you need to be able to love it, and listen, even when it's hard." She isn't sure why she says this: perhaps to channel a bit of the woman, find solace in the absent Chandrakant matriarch, who would do so much better in this position, who could rally and soothe and listen and care. "Zariah doesn't love this place, but the people here? We do. I do."
And for the first time in her life, Amalia knows that it is true. She loves the Hollowed Grounds, as broken as it is, as much as she has rallied against it, as much as it has stolen away. She loves each broken cobblestone, each ghost, each blight and challenge new seasons bring. She loves the empty buildings, the crumbling Antheneum, the whispering woods.
She loves the people who have found a way to make this their home, born within or not. And she will be damned if she lets a tyrant crush them beneath her heel.
Inhaling a shuddering breath, Amalia raises her head, gaze flinty, expression serious. "We deserve leaders who love this place, and are willing to put the people inside above themselves. That's why I... I nominateRory and Ronin. I trust them both to want what's best for all of us, and to listen and be fair."
And with that she sits, her voice spent, having said as much in these quiet minutes as she has at any time of her life. Sighing out the last of her anxiety, Amalia grips her cup once more, trying to hide the trembling of her hands, the nervous energy which plagues her now that she has said her piece.
When it appears no others are soon to arrive, Amalia clears her throat. Squeezing Deimos' hand briefly, the quiet baker rises to her feet, looking at those assembled with dark and glittering eyes. "Thank you for coming," she murmurs, her low voice faltering with anxiety at being placed in charge. Swallowing, the quiet baker continues, a little stronger now. "We know why we're here. We're all, ah, unhappy, with recent events." A bit of wry humor; she raises an eyebrow at the understatement, coloring a little as she recalls being the one most visibly enraged. "But... There's no point in going over all that tonight. The reason we're here is to decide what to do next."
She pauses a moment to allow any to protest, her right hand rising to rub her left arm, an anxious moment as she awaits the inevitable doubt, the cries to sit down and let the grown-ups speak. But as her wide gaze skims across this crowd, Amalia feels a strange surge of confidence, trust in most of the people within. Jyoti stays by the girl's shoulder, a soothing beacon in this tense time, ready to ignite in starlight should tempers begin to rise. "As cowardly as she may be, Zariah is right about some things. We can't keep going the way we have, not with the world growing bigger all the time. And we can't keep drawing lines between ourselves. We... we need to become a community. United. But that doesn't mean we should let a tyrant decide how we should build it." Anger glimmers in her voice, a dangerous silver edge. The beginning of claws appear on her fingers, and Amalia inhales deeply, trying to keep the leopardess under control.
Dropping her gaze, the baker swallows once again, trying to keep the tremor of memory out of her voice. "My... my grandmother was a leader, of sorts, in our community. Not in any official way, but... she used to say that to keep a place healthy, you need to be able to love it, and listen, even when it's hard." She isn't sure why she says this: perhaps to channel a bit of the woman, find solace in the absent Chandrakant matriarch, who would do so much better in this position, who could rally and soothe and listen and care. "Zariah doesn't love this place, but the people here? We do. I do."
And for the first time in her life, Amalia knows that it is true. She loves the Hollowed Grounds, as broken as it is, as much as she has rallied against it, as much as it has stolen away. She loves each broken cobblestone, each ghost, each blight and challenge new seasons bring. She loves the empty buildings, the crumbling Antheneum, the whispering woods.
She loves the people who have found a way to make this their home, born within or not. And she will be damned if she lets a tyrant crush them beneath her heel.
Inhaling a shuddering breath, Amalia raises her head, gaze flinty, expression serious. "We deserve leaders who love this place, and are willing to put the people inside above themselves. That's why I... I nominate
And with that she sits, her voice spent, having said as much in these quiet minutes as she has at any time of her life. Sighing out the last of her anxiety, Amalia grips her cup once more, trying to hide the trembling of her hands, the nervous energy which plagues her now that she has said her piece.
but she was much more afraid
of never flying
