Amalia
He is not the only one drawn to the symphony of this place. She feels it, too- a constant pulse, a steady pull, the thrum of something close to beauty and freedom, so rarely seen in their dying cage. While the world decays the Glade survives, stubborn and insolent in the shadow of the spire. It thrives, grows, blooms, and rails against the darkness which threatens like velvet to wrap them in its sinful embrace, caress their faces and press into their throats, a sinful suffocation disguised as life.
Thus is the mood, the pensive thoughts, which ushers her from the stifling settlement and into the sanctuary of the Glade. Snowfall silences ambient noise: Deepfrost is a lonely time, and the girl's footfalls are her only companion as she marches through the snow. She wishes she were barefoot, yearns to feel grass beneath her feet- but the snow is heavy, even here, and she weighs herself down with boot and cloak, less nymph than wraith, her breath a halo in the cold winter light. Heavy, she feels heavy, worn out and weary of the oppressive dark.
Drawing beneath the evergreen trees, Amalia exhales a wistful sigh, shaking her head as though to clear it of the cobwebs and musings that weigh on her so. Luxere prints litter the ground, heart-shaped clefts pressed into the snow: the girl yearns to see another, to have their light expel her own inner dark. She recalls bittersweetly the wounded buck, and the antlers of red which now sit in her shop. Is he safe? Is he well? Is he, at last, not alone?
Reaching a clearing Amalia stops, drawing still and silent at a scene which now unfolds. Two of the creatures have gathered round a tree, drawn by a whistle she can just barely hear. Birdsong, she thinks, not having noticed the lanky musician in the boughs above. She is too preoccupied by the radiant deer, too entranced and enamored and hopeful of respite. "Hello, friends," the girl greets, her alto voice quiet and comforting as she inches forward, a hand outstretched. "I met one of your brothers. He had red antlers." Do they know him? Do they even understand? One of the luxere turns toward the girl, huffing and sniffing at the cautious approach. Amalia is nearly upon them now, the docile deer relatively unfazed. Their silent acceptance soothes her somewhat, easing the loneliness which aches in her heart. She reaches a hand to caress one behind the ears. "It's hard, being different. Being alone. I hope you'll look after him, hmm? Keep him company in the Long Night? All he wants is to be loved."
Thus is the mood, the pensive thoughts, which ushers her from the stifling settlement and into the sanctuary of the Glade. Snowfall silences ambient noise: Deepfrost is a lonely time, and the girl's footfalls are her only companion as she marches through the snow. She wishes she were barefoot, yearns to feel grass beneath her feet- but the snow is heavy, even here, and she weighs herself down with boot and cloak, less nymph than wraith, her breath a halo in the cold winter light. Heavy, she feels heavy, worn out and weary of the oppressive dark.
Drawing beneath the evergreen trees, Amalia exhales a wistful sigh, shaking her head as though to clear it of the cobwebs and musings that weigh on her so. Luxere prints litter the ground, heart-shaped clefts pressed into the snow: the girl yearns to see another, to have their light expel her own inner dark. She recalls bittersweetly the wounded buck, and the antlers of red which now sit in her shop. Is he safe? Is he well? Is he, at last, not alone?
Reaching a clearing Amalia stops, drawing still and silent at a scene which now unfolds. Two of the creatures have gathered round a tree, drawn by a whistle she can just barely hear. Birdsong, she thinks, not having noticed the lanky musician in the boughs above. She is too preoccupied by the radiant deer, too entranced and enamored and hopeful of respite. "Hello, friends," the girl greets, her alto voice quiet and comforting as she inches forward, a hand outstretched. "I met one of your brothers. He had red antlers." Do they know him? Do they even understand? One of the luxere turns toward the girl, huffing and sniffing at the cautious approach. Amalia is nearly upon them now, the docile deer relatively unfazed. Their silent acceptance soothes her somewhat, easing the loneliness which aches in her heart. She reaches a hand to caress one behind the ears. "It's hard, being different. Being alone. I hope you'll look after him, hmm? Keep him company in the Long Night? All he wants is to be loved."
