with a reverence unimpaired

Amalia takes the lemonade cautiously, not sure what else to do. She is still uneasy, still on edge, her dark eyes leaping from scene to scene as she tries to make sense of what has happened, where she is and what it means. The tulmhainar's voice is deeply soothing, but it is the mention of Mort which soothes her nerves; at last Amalia begins to relax, though her body remains tense. Settling carefully into the chair, the baker clenches her fingers around the glass but does not take a sip. "What are you?" There is no piece of research in her lexicon to have prepared her for this, no knowledge she can draw on to know what she must do. Mort, please keep me, she silently prays, reaching out for her lifeline of faith. "Why did the fae say she would sacrifice us to you?" And then another thought, strange and terrifying, freezing her in place. "Am... am I dead?" Amalia Her eyes, they know too much. She'll treat you like somebody but you just can't touch.