Amalie is a long time stranger to magic. At least the sort that’s carefully crafted and executed, the structured sort that children learned in books and that came from the tales of witches and warlocks. Whatever had befallen them, whether it had been something inherited or a fluke, was still left unknown. While limited here, there was still that rapt fascination that Amalie had had since they were a child. 

After all, neither of their sisters had shown a propensity for the ritualistic desecration in the way Amalie had. Nothing had come apart in their hands like organic things seemed to in their’s. Subsequently, nothing comes to life in the same way. Left with a dying plant and an inability to do anything about it, Amalie ends up letting out a mighty off, before lowering the little thing to return to the earth. 

“You’d think they’d take some time to realize when someone could actually do some good in this place.” The notes of their conversation are a bit sour, but Amalie hasn’t been in too kindly a mood. “But no, from what I’ve heard, individuals come back to themselves by something terribly arbitrary.”