the darkest nights produce the brightest stars
He sees her- or he senses her, at least. In a way Amalia is relieved: it makes the next decision easier. She'd been agonizing over whether or not to reveal herself to the man, whether it would cause him to behave differently, to hide, but if he already knows he is being observed there can be no harm in confirming his suspicions.
She hasn't come here to hurt him, after all. She just wants to know why.
The leopardess emerges from the snow slowly, paws crunching quietly and softly enough to not avoid leaving footprints. Through large dark eyes she stares at Sam, her body taut with coiled grace. She could strike him if she wanted, stop this madness here and now. How many would she save from this game, by removing such a key player?
What cost would it take upon her soul?
The girl who stands before the Ascended is not a huntress, not a killer. As she shifts she becomes simply herself: Amalia Chandrakant, friend of his sister, a familiar face as they grew up. And he is Samuel Wordsworth, always quiet and shy, never joining their games and antics, and they are children of a snowglobe world thrown out to the wolves and cast in a war passed down to them from generations past.
"Hi, Sam," the baker says softly, her face half-hidden behind a long red scarf. It is the calm before the storm, she knows- but oh, she wishes it would last.
She hasn't come here to hurt him, after all. She just wants to know why.
The leopardess emerges from the snow slowly, paws crunching quietly and softly enough to not avoid leaving footprints. Through large dark eyes she stares at Sam, her body taut with coiled grace. She could strike him if she wanted, stop this madness here and now. How many would she save from this game, by removing such a key player?
What cost would it take upon her soul?
The girl who stands before the Ascended is not a huntress, not a killer. As she shifts she becomes simply herself: Amalia Chandrakant, friend of his sister, a familiar face as they grew up. And he is Samuel Wordsworth, always quiet and shy, never joining their games and antics, and they are children of a snowglobe world thrown out to the wolves and cast in a war passed down to them from generations past.
"Hi, Sam," the baker says softly, her face half-hidden behind a long red scarf. It is the calm before the storm, she knows- but oh, she wishes it would last.
