Amalia
the archangel
So young. So wounded. And yet so eager. These are the things Amalia thinks as she regards Arialla, predictably blind to how those characteristics are mirrored in herself. Whatever cautions or questions that may have leapt up to her tongue - Are you certain? Do you not want to rest? It doesn't have to be your fight - are swallowed down, replaced by a serious, respectful nod as the younger woman names herself a soldier in the armies of the Old Gods.
"What is it you wanted to do for the Gods?" The question is put forth with such sincerity as to soothe the rougher edges of the wording. Amalia tilts her head to the side, her dark eyes focused on the red-haired girl. "The books I've been able to find have been useless - we need to know where to go from here. To speak to the heralds. To explore the Wilds. There's endless work to be done."
"What is it you wanted to do for the Gods?" The question is put forth with such sincerity as to soothe the rougher edges of the wording. Amalia tilts her head to the side, her dark eyes focused on the red-haired girl. "The books I've been able to find have been useless - we need to know where to go from here. To speak to the heralds. To explore the Wilds. There's endless work to be done."
she is calm in the storm
and anxious in the quiet
and anxious in the quiet
