Scent of Home

Amalia eyes the trigger with interest, still curious about the mechanisms of this weapon. It is miserably small, scarcely bigger than his hand. Such a thing, she thinks, cannot cause much harm. It is the dagger equivalent of a bow, a sling beside a trebuchet, a beautifully wrought and ornamental thing. "Do you have anything else from your world?" she asks, stepping back to once again examine him, her dark gaze tracing him from head to toe, prying and pouring as though she might find some secret there. A teasing smile pulls at her lip, one brow arching in mock ridicule. "Are those... clothes normal, where you're from?" Turning her attention back to her work, Amalia begins to lengthen the dough, forming four long and slender ropes. She cannot help the pleased smile which rises to her face at his compliment, genuine delight painting her copper skin a glowing shade of rose. "I'm glad you've managed to find something pleasant in this backward place." The banter in her voice is softened by pleasure, the needle of her tone dulled by pride in her work. He asks about her recipe, and a shadow passes briefly across her face. But Amalia rallies, shrugging slightly as she starts on the next piece of dough. "It's a family recipe. They all are. We've been passing them down as long as anyone can remember." amalia been talking to myself forever and how I wish I knew me better