we cannot become what we want to be by remaining what we are
Amalia winces as Ronin's boot crushes through another hapless gourd, though it would be a lie to say she wasn't already thinking of the scones she could make with the remnants. "At least don't get them dirty," she mutters in complaint, shaking her leg to dislodge the one that has tried to make a meal of her toes. "There has to be a reason they're this active. And if there is, there's a way to calm them down."
Despite her protests, Amalia takes the takes the offered broom, glancing between it, the gourds, and Ronin as though to say, what is this going to do? Lowering the broom by her side, the Angel instead focuses on concentrating her magic, calling on a gust of wind to buffet a handful of the pumpkins and send them rolling out into the street. It's a temporary solution, but a satisfying one, leaving her smiling mirthlessly. "Not great," she answers Ronin flatly and honestly, shifting the broom in her hands to hold it like a staff. Her eyes never leave the swarm. "You?"
Despite her protests, Amalia takes the takes the offered broom, glancing between it, the gourds, and Ronin as though to say, what is this going to do? Lowering the broom by her side, the Angel instead focuses on concentrating her magic, calling on a gust of wind to buffet a handful of the pumpkins and send them rolling out into the street. It's a temporary solution, but a satisfying one, leaving her smiling mirthlessly. "Not great," she answers Ronin flatly and honestly, shifting the broom in her hands to hold it like a staff. Her eyes never leave the swarm. "You?"
Amalia
