Scent of Home

She bristles, again, at his disregard for the sanctity of Ludo, whispering a silent apology to the errant being. The disregard of Outlanders for their customs irritates the girl: it is the reason they resist and rebel, and even now she arcs away from him, tension in her arms as they return to the counter, her jaw tight and her fingers swift as she spreads flour upon the work surface. Kneading the sweet dough in practiced motions, Amalia listens silently to Adam's tale, cool edge fading from her obsidian eyes. Instead a spark of curiosity grows, and despite herself the girl leans forward again, disapproval giving way to interest, softening the angles of her face. "Guns?" she asks inquiringly, "And carriages? What are those? And what makes them good?" For a second she looks like she might coil up again as he calls her homeland backwards. Pausing in her work she stares at him a moment, but swiftly returns to her bread with a shrug. "Maybe it is. Or maybe you're small-minded." In response to his question on ovens, Amalia silently turns away, walking toward the back of the shop where the brick oven stands in proud display. With practiced finesse she grabs a wooden board, sliding it neatly under the browned seed cakes before withdrawing them from the scorching heat. The scent of them quickly fills the shop, mouth-watering and heavenly, wafting through the small space. Turning back to Adam, she deposits them upon the counter before looking at the man. "They're very hot." And then without a word she returns to her work, beginning to split the sweet dough into smaller sections, though her sidelong gaze does not leave the thief, and a laughing challenge seems to rest in her smile. amalia been talking to myself forever and how I wish I knew me better