Amalia
A deeper conversation is all I want from you-
Amalia smiles crookedly at his glance, ever pleasantly bewildered that she can ignite that burning passion behind his eyes. But their attention is shifted now, brought down upon meaner, less beautiful things. Swords and daggers, maces and knives; she stares at the blade she has selected, an unpleasant lump still in her throat. She is not a fighter, a warrior; she is not so bold, but she is terrified, worried, concerned for her friends. The world is changing, and Amalia must with it, if she is to protect the ones she loves.She watches as Deimos works his magic, a shield appearing between his hands. Manifested from nothing but ether - it never fails to awe the girl, who has known such things her entire life. Silver glitters in the space between them, starlit and beautiful, delicately wrought. "Oh," she breathes her quiet delight, reaching out to take the gift, to hook it over her left arm and settle it against her chest. "Oh, it's perfect." Light, comfortable; it eases some of the tension from her shoulders, and she glances up with a radiant smile, grateful he did not question her, laugh at her discontent.
She follows him into the open space, her bare feet pressing into the early morning dew. "Not much." Staff stances, mostly, how to fall and roll; things her late mother once imparted, forced the girl to learn and know. Standing across from the towering figure, Amalia cannot help her sensation of inadequacy, the awareness that she is woefully unprepared and far outpaced.
Still, the girl will do her best. With the dagger in one hand and the shield in the other Amalia adopts a fighting stance, her shoulders squared, her feet wide-set, her arms entirely unsure of where to go and so held out as she might the staff, dagger high and shield low.
- I want the words you're afraid to say:
the lonely ones you keep hidden
between the folds of your heart
