sons could be birds,
taken broken up to the mountain
taken broken up to the mountain
Breathe in: she turns toward him with a look he knows. Her eyes are the eyes of a cornered beast. She is about to spring. She will defend herself with all means necessary, and Nate has only the walking stick and the dog —
Breathe out: the human peering out of her eyes again. Her voice, Amalia's voice, issuing from the catlike features. The leopard suits her somehow, as if she always wears it in some fashion, holding the obvious signs just out of sight. Then they are looking at each other, looking with something intense, silently agreeing on some unspoken thing, and Nate can't bear it and he has to look after the dog. Not fair, because she wasn't doing anything bad, but she comes along willingly anyway, her plumed tail waving gently side to side. Nate scratches her ears before he looks at Amalia again.
She is very small out here. A moment ago, she was going to rip his guts out, but still the wilderness spreads out around her and cups her in its palm like she is nothing. Just in case. Is this what they are now? Speaking in code words and vague implication? Is this what the Hollowed Grounds have become? He looks at her and he sees someone braver than himself. He looks at her, and his guts twist uncomfortably.
"I might get in the way," he says, and shifts his weight. "But I can probably take a few hits." He can feel the attempt at humor falling flat and so he gestures at the dog. "Go home," he tells her with a wave. "Home. Make sure Adam doesn't burn anything down." Dutifully, she obeys. The dog is the only thing worth keeping, he thinks sometimes.
Nate turns back to Amalia, and hefts the walking stick in one hand. It's long enough to be a short staff, not entirely straight, but the wood it sanded and finished, wrapped with leather around the grip. Nathaniel is uncomfortably aware he hasn't had much practice with this. Not since he was a liter younger and a lot lighter, with only fear and anger on his side.
He tries to find some sort of muscle memory, anyway, as he widens his stance and moved slowly to the right. "Ladies first?"
Breathe out: the human peering out of her eyes again. Her voice, Amalia's voice, issuing from the catlike features. The leopard suits her somehow, as if she always wears it in some fashion, holding the obvious signs just out of sight. Then they are looking at each other, looking with something intense, silently agreeing on some unspoken thing, and Nate can't bear it and he has to look after the dog. Not fair, because she wasn't doing anything bad, but she comes along willingly anyway, her plumed tail waving gently side to side. Nate scratches her ears before he looks at Amalia again.
She is very small out here. A moment ago, she was going to rip his guts out, but still the wilderness spreads out around her and cups her in its palm like she is nothing. Just in case. Is this what they are now? Speaking in code words and vague implication? Is this what the Hollowed Grounds have become? He looks at her and he sees someone braver than himself. He looks at her, and his guts twist uncomfortably.
"I might get in the way," he says, and shifts his weight. "But I can probably take a few hits." He can feel the attempt at humor falling flat and so he gestures at the dog. "Go home," he tells her with a wave. "Home. Make sure Adam doesn't burn anything down." Dutifully, she obeys. The dog is the only thing worth keeping, he thinks sometimes.
Nate turns back to Amalia, and hefts the walking stick in one hand. It's long enough to be a short staff, not entirely straight, but the wood it sanded and finished, wrapped with leather around the grip. Nathaniel is uncomfortably aware he hasn't had much practice with this. Not since he was a liter younger and a lot lighter, with only fear and anger on his side.
He tries to find some sort of muscle memory, anyway, as he widens his stance and moved slowly to the right. "Ladies first?"
