we cannot become what we want to be by remaining what we are
The chaos that reigns is absolute, and it's only going to get worse. Amalia barely has time to duck her head and shut her eyes when a burst of light washes over her, pressing against her eyelids and searing through her wounds like the disinfectants her mother used to use. It hurts, but it heals, and when it fades Amalia's neck is bloody but unwounded, the skin knit together as though the gash were never there.
She springs to the window and pulls it shut, stopping the last of the swarm from getting in. "Thanks." For a moment Amalia leaves it at that, her forehead pressed against the shutters, eyes closed as she catches her breath. Slowly she turns back to survey the carnage, wincing as she registers just how much pumpkin viscera currently covers the alchemy shop.
It isn't pretty, folks.
"I don't suppose one of your tattoos is a magic mop?"
She springs to the window and pulls it shut, stopping the last of the swarm from getting in. "Thanks." For a moment Amalia leaves it at that, her forehead pressed against the shutters, eyes closed as she catches her breath. Slowly she turns back to survey the carnage, wincing as she registers just how much pumpkin viscera currently covers the alchemy shop.
It isn't pretty, folks.
"I don't suppose one of your tattoos is a magic mop?"
Amalia
