[Seasonal Event] The Dying of the Light

a m a l i a She and Wessex arrive together, the unlikely duo a striking pair against the dying light. They pull a sleigh behind them, or Wessex does, heavily laden with supplies for the week: bread and cheese, wood and furs, and a pair of glowing luxere antlers perched atop it all. It is distinctly possible that she brought to much, but it is too late to recant and take it home- and besides, her mother often told her to always be prepared. Will there be space, though? Will Rory be irked? It is her first Long Night with company in years; what if she annoys them, or they her? Anxiety heightened by the myriad of stressors which plague her brain, Amalia is somehow more on edge and flighty than usual. It is only Wessex's sturdy presence which keeps her calm, the Ascended a familiar and stalwart (and alive!) beacon in the encroaching endless night. This will be fine, she repeats like a mantra, each word timed with her soft and swift steps. Everything will be fine. It will not, of course. It never is. Rory's home is comfortable, homey, rich with the scent of fur and hide. There is not fighting over rooms. Amalia voluntarily takes the smaller: she feels more comfortable within, and besides, the girl feels a great deal of respect for Wessex, the older woman something of a misplaced family figure for the baker. As the night draws nearer and the luxere come in waves a warm reassurance fills the girl. She has left her antlers in the front room, hoping they will bring some happiness to her companions, unaware of Wessex's history with the beast. Finishing up her unpacking and preparing, Amalia wipes her hands and sighs, a tentative smile on her face. The smile fades when she comes out. It is replaced by an expression of worry and fear, concern for the worst creeping at her throat. "What happened?!" she whispers, dashing on quiet feet to where Rory sits against the door, in obvious distress. Horrible images dance through her mind: blood on the snow, sounds in the dark. She remembers a scream, and shudders. Her eyes are frantic as they scan his face; she kneels down beside her host, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Is everything okay? Is it Wessex?"