Prodigal

She's imperfect, but she tries She is good, but she lies She is hard on herself She is broken and won't ask for help Amalia sits before the fire, a blanket over her slender frame and a book clutched in her hands, more on the table beside her. Tomes of stories, tales, history revised, all embracing a central thing: Safrin. Her origins, her exploits, the role she fulfills for Vi. All the information the girl can gather. So far, it is not very much. She has been digging into the collection from the library they uncovered underground, but even that offers little of substance. Born from starlight, favored daughter of Vi- sweet stories of generosity and silly ones of vanity, but nothing that offers any substantive information about the history of the being. Nothing that she can use, to draw the goddess back from the blight. So it is that Jigano finds her, small and silent, reading beneath the light of candles and Jyoti's stars. She does not see him as he enters, too engrossed in her research, the journal of a devotee spread between her fingers. She does not notice him until he speaks, the voice making Amalia jump, her body suddenly taut with tension, wary and ready to spring into action should he strike with blighted fangs. "Jigano?" she answers unsteadily, remembering distinctly their last encounter. "What... what are you doing here?" a m a l i a She is messy, but she's kind She is lonely most of the time She is all of this mixed up and baked in a beautiful pie She is gone, but she used to be mine