Oh sing sweet Nightingale, sing sweet...
Phoebe is silent in the wake of Amalia's tirade, lips pulled thin as she gripped the sides of her dress with her fingers - her own knuckles as white as the baker's. Her eyes shut, drawing in a slow breath through her nose to try and calm her own ire that threatened to boil up. She knew all to well now that her anger was not actually that, but hurt, old wounds easily struck and reopened. No matter what she did, no matter where she went, she would always be an Outlander. She would never belong. Never fit in. Never have a real home in this world filled with so many who thought just the same as Amalia."You're right. I am an Outlander." she said softly, honeyed eyes opening again to look at the Shield. The wounds her words inflicted shone clear, despite standing tall before her still. "And no matter what I do, no matter how hard I try to make this place my home you and yours will always be around to remind me just how scarce your empathy is for those who wish nothing more than to make the best of an unjust situation." she said, voice tight. Phoebe had attended no great crusades to bring down the Spire. She made no attempts to release the Voice or aid her - she had never even so much as spoken to her. Instead she had sought guidance from Frey, a herald of the Old Gods. She had sought to heal those when the Voice's blight raged in the Hollowed Ground and spoke up about the involvement of the Ascended when she had spotted it in the cells. But it didn't matter. She was an Outlander - and that would always outweigh everything else.
"I'm sorry I came. I should've known you would not listen to filth like myself. You do know everything, after all." she said softly, turning towards the door.
...high above me
The Nightingale
