Amalia
the archangel
If she could glow like Ronin she might now be a beacon of sorts, vibrant in the rush of fury at his perceived betrayal, at what they've witness, at the unjust and seedy underbelly that hides beneath a false veneer of moral superiority and righteousness. If she could glow she would be electrifying, but she doesn't glow.
And for some reason, neither does he.
Her arms are crossed upon her chest when she rounds on him, but they drop as his explanation comes tumbling into the air. "She what?" is all Amalia can think to say, anger easily shifting to bemused indignation, her glare shifting into a blank, blinking stare. "She- you- you defied her?" Her hands come up, as though to keep him from dropping any other world-shattering bombs. Mechanically she takes the parcel from Ronin, far too focused on what he's told her to comprehend that it's a gift. "And she- she- but Safrin adores you. And we're supposed to be at war! Can she do that?"
And for some reason, neither does he.
Her arms are crossed upon her chest when she rounds on him, but they drop as his explanation comes tumbling into the air. "She what?" is all Amalia can think to say, anger easily shifting to bemused indignation, her glare shifting into a blank, blinking stare. "She- you- you defied her?" Her hands come up, as though to keep him from dropping any other world-shattering bombs. Mechanically she takes the parcel from Ronin, far too focused on what he's told her to comprehend that it's a gift. "And she- she- but Safrin adores you. And we're supposed to be at war! Can she do that?"
she's just like the weather
can't hold her together
can't hold her together
