Aamu
They're beautiful.
He wants to touch them: wants to offer his hand to their muzzles, wants to show them what it is like to have your forehead scratched, your ears stroked, towish his fingers didn't feel frozen if he were to run them through their mane, their fur—
Well. The strangest (arguably, most beautiful) of the gathering steps forward, and Aamu doesn't know what he is feeling. Awe—reverence—like crying. There's something special about being judged by someone you irrationally feel like has every right to judge you.
But then she changes: fur and scales flow away, replaced by skin and cloth, but he can still see the qilin in her face (the flowers in her hair). He isn't surprised—perhaps slightly disappointed—and wonders.. about a lot of things.
Like why she cares so intensely about the Grounds. Aamu lets his gaze slide away to the bloodwashed horizon, something bitter curling on his lips. Did they succeed? Did they succeed? Oh, Amalia, if you saw those smoking ruins—
"That depends on your definition of success," he answers, unable to mask what he feels: the bitterness comes out as sharp edges. That strange oil-slick sheen darkens his eyes as he links his hands together behind his back. "I would say that we failed."
He wants to touch them: wants to offer his hand to their muzzles, wants to show them what it is like to have your forehead scratched, your ears stroked, to
Well. The strangest (arguably, most beautiful) of the gathering steps forward, and Aamu doesn't know what he is feeling. Awe—reverence—like crying. There's something special about being judged by someone you irrationally feel like has every right to judge you.
But then she changes: fur and scales flow away, replaced by skin and cloth, but he can still see the qilin in her face (the flowers in her hair). He isn't surprised—perhaps slightly disappointed—and wonders.. about a lot of things.
Like why she cares so intensely about the Grounds. Aamu lets his gaze slide away to the bloodwashed horizon, something bitter curling on his lips. Did they succeed? Did they succeed? Oh, Amalia, if you saw those smoking ruins—
"That depends on your definition of success," he answers, unable to mask what he feels: the bitterness comes out as sharp edges. That strange oil-slick sheen darkens his eyes as he links his hands together behind his back. "I would say that we failed."
Through the streets and the houses of gods you roam
and on their altars you lay your heart of stone
and on their altars you lay your heart of stone
