Amalia;
"So can I." Is it a challenge? A joke? A reassurance? The intent is not clear, but then, maybe it wasn't meant to be. Maybe it's just a statement of fact, an acknowledgment of the way thing are, the way they have been for months, for years. I can take a few hits- because isn't that all they do here, really? Take a hit and shake it off, again and again and again and again, until their bones are broken and their lungs are full of blood, and even then they spit out their broken teeth and wait for the next blow to fall.
She raises an eyebrow at the instruction to the dog. That, at least, is clearly amusement, the concept of Nate and Adam as roommates still dumbfounding to the girl. "How's that going?" she asks, tilting her head. "Adam. He's a bit of a mess." A shrug, clearly not irate, more entertained and a little concerned. Amalia is fond of the strange man, and protective. She is protective of everyone she cares about.
She has lost too many already.
Amalia's staff is a work of art, wrought by Remi to fit her form, her height, her weight, her hands. Rivulets of luxere horn drip down it like waterfalls, glowing faintly in the girl's grip, a soothing sort of red. It fits easily against her palms, and as he readies his she lifts it up, waiting to follow his lead. Instead, he invites her to go first- a surprise, but not an unwelcome one. A shrug is the only answer he receives, a flick of her ears and lashing tail the only warning before she swings, the staff arcing delicately in her hands, a slash of red against the blue sky. She is not aiming to hurt or hit him: her goal is to strike his stick in turn, to have him block and then pull back into her own defensive stance.
Her feet skate delicately through the dirt, a dancer's form, long and lean. This is a drill, not a fight, a training between comrades. Amalia has no intent of harming the larger man, nor being hurt herself. They do not need to wound each other. Life has dealt them enough blows, with many more on the way.
She raises an eyebrow at the instruction to the dog. That, at least, is clearly amusement, the concept of Nate and Adam as roommates still dumbfounding to the girl. "How's that going?" she asks, tilting her head. "Adam. He's a bit of a mess." A shrug, clearly not irate, more entertained and a little concerned. Amalia is fond of the strange man, and protective. She is protective of everyone she cares about.
She has lost too many already.
Amalia's staff is a work of art, wrought by Remi to fit her form, her height, her weight, her hands. Rivulets of luxere horn drip down it like waterfalls, glowing faintly in the girl's grip, a soothing sort of red. It fits easily against her palms, and as he readies his she lifts it up, waiting to follow his lead. Instead, he invites her to go first- a surprise, but not an unwelcome one. A shrug is the only answer he receives, a flick of her ears and lashing tail the only warning before she swings, the staff arcing delicately in her hands, a slash of red against the blue sky. She is not aiming to hurt or hit him: her goal is to strike his stick in turn, to have him block and then pull back into her own defensive stance.
Her feet skate delicately through the dirt, a dancer's form, long and lean. This is a drill, not a fight, a training between comrades. Amalia has no intent of harming the larger man, nor being hurt herself. They do not need to wound each other. Life has dealt them enough blows, with many more on the way.
dry your smoke-stung eyes
you can see the light
you can see the light
