Amalia
the archangel
It is the end of a sermon, and the worshippers have filed into the aisles to go accost Gideon with their sorrows and questions, their dreams and their doubts. Many, but not all: as the days go on a larger and larger minority of the populace has moved its way in a different stream, making a tributary that goes not to the Priest, but the Archangel who stands silent in the temple, a halo keeping her from hiding in shadow, a wreath of laurel in her hair. The first few times it happened Amalia bristled, uncomfortable and alarmed at this show of faith; now she has come to expect it, even enjoy it, to find some comfort in the familiar faces and the knowledge she brings them some solace, however slight.
The crowd is thinning when she hears her name come from distantly familiar lips. Assuming the speaker to be another parishioner, Amalia turns with a courteous smile, an expression which immediately cracks and gives way into something more ardent as the one-time-priestess comes into view. "Arialla!" the Angel whisper-cries, stepping out from her small entourage and extending a hand towards the tired looking girl. Concern and relief crease her eyes, warming her alto voice. "Of course- I didn't know you were in Stormbreak. Have you eaten? Do you want some tea?"
The crowd is thinning when she hears her name come from distantly familiar lips. Assuming the speaker to be another parishioner, Amalia turns with a courteous smile, an expression which immediately cracks and gives way into something more ardent as the one-time-priestess comes into view. "Arialla!" the Angel whisper-cries, stepping out from her small entourage and extending a hand towards the tired looking girl. Concern and relief crease her eyes, warming her alto voice. "Of course- I didn't know you were in Stormbreak. Have you eaten? Do you want some tea?"
she is calm in the storm
and anxious in the quiet
and anxious in the quiet
