this pair of wings worn and rusted from too many years by my side
Amalia wakes up with a mild fever.
It's nothing to be concerned about, or so she repeats on loop in her mind. A cold from the climate change. An effect of stress. The things she sees from the corners of her eyes are simply tricks of the light on the snow. The voices she hears if she doesn't concentrate are just her own rambling thoughts.
The ghost of the Harpy that circles overhead is just a normal bird.
She wears her shield and carries her sword, Nova's hilt a beacon of red against the girl's side. In her pack are essentials: the crystal which she asks Morgan to fill, the guardian scale, the empty horn of plenty. Not really trusting herself to speak, she accompanies the group in relative silence, holding a position in the back. The sweat on her brow is from the heat. The turmoil in her mind is from the memories of this place, the haunting fear and guilt.
There is nothing else going on. She is going to be fine, no matter what the ghost that follows her wants the girl to think.
It's nothing to be concerned about, or so she repeats on loop in her mind. A cold from the climate change. An effect of stress. The things she sees from the corners of her eyes are simply tricks of the light on the snow. The voices she hears if she doesn't concentrate are just her own rambling thoughts.
The ghost of the Harpy that circles overhead is just a normal bird.
She wears her shield and carries her sword, Nova's hilt a beacon of red against the girl's side. In her pack are essentials: the crystal which she asks Morgan to fill, the guardian scale, the empty horn of plenty. Not really trusting herself to speak, she accompanies the group in relative silence, holding a position in the back. The sweat on her brow is from the heat. The turmoil in her mind is from the memories of this place, the haunting fear and guilt.
There is nothing else going on. She is going to be fine, no matter what the ghost that follows her wants the girl to think.
