Scent of Home

In the quiet days, the lull between deaths, Amalia finds solace in baking. Kneading bread is a muscle memory by now; she basks in the repetition, the easy act of creating something cohesive from from disparate ingredients through nothing but movement and the magic of food. On days like these she likes to prepare, and so it is today that the baker has a collection of confections brewing: small seed cakes fresh in the oven, a tray of round loaves proving nearby, and a sweet bread coming together in a bowl, ready to be turned out and kneaded. As the dough comes together beneath her fingers the baker hums, her voice a melodious note in the stillness, a bright alto strain of life in the dusty shop. It is a cozy place, to be sure, illuminated as it is by the soft red luxere antler above the door and the warm Flowerbirth sun which peers through windows, and Amalia cuts a cozy figure within. Dressed in a simple grey tunic and dark skirt, she wears an apron to shield her clothes, honey hair pulled into a long and loose tail. She does not hear the stranger enter: she has dipped into a back storage space, though the tune she keeps and the clatter of pans betrays her presence in the shop. Grabbing a tray she comes back around; it is not until he speaks that she raises her eyes, song dying abruptly on her lips, to be replaced by a flush. "Ah-" she begins, taken aback, dark eyes glancing over him with keen, unapologetic curiosity. "Yes- That is, there's some cakes in the oven- ah..." Fading off, she raises a hand self-consciously, pushing a wayward lock of hair behind her left ear. amalia been talking to myself forever and how I wish I knew me better