Scent of Home

Amalia tenses at his shifty expression, the memory of thief not far from her mind. But rather than stealing, he seems to be guarding, pushing something precious out of sight. A faint, almost knowing smile pulls at her lips, though it is darkened by an unearned sadness for the man. Trophies of the lost, she mistakenly suspects. Memories of loved ones, of the people and places he once called home. She, too, would cherish these; an unconscious hand raises to the pendant at her throat in sympathy. His next comment elicits a laugh, lilting and brief and a little sardonic. "You must have stolen them, then," she teases lightly, brushing off the added like me with her mocking barb. "I feel bad for the good looking man who must be walking around naked somewhere, missing his leather." Amalia softens as he apologizes, finding it hard to stay angry at this strange, nonthreatening man. "It's alright. It must be hard, being somewhere totally new. I... I can't even imagine." Empathy rings in her tone, sincere alto thoughtful as she continues to work. The Outlanders, as a whole, have adapted surprisingly well - conflicts and brittle truces aside. Laying out the four long ropes of bread, Amalia is poised to braid before his comment catches her off guard. "Uh..." A blush colors her angular cheeks, unbidden and rosy, and she drops her eyes from his face, laughing nervously. "There are, um, some of my grandmothers friends who help sometimes, um... but I live here alone. No one, uh..." has ever been interested, she does not add, though the pervasive loneliness in her soul squeezes, vicelike, against her heart. "What... what about you?" amalia been talking to myself forever and how I wish I knew me better