[PQ] Riddle Me This

She's imperfect, but she tries She is good, but she lies She is hard on herself She is broken and won't ask for help It is a pity point, but she will take it, as it is more than she expected. Amalia sticks her tongue out at Jigano, suddenly childish in the comfort of their relationship: "Of course you gave me the hard one," she replies, laughter lightening the childlike petulance, a smile crinkling her eyes. The next challenge is significantly worse, and the baker groans audibly, dropping her chin to her hands. Words she has some skill with; subtlety she does not. Riddles are just words formed into lies, and Amalia is a creature of frank honesty and luminescence, not cut out for things that are hidden in doubt. Only one thing pops into her mind, and she laughs, shaking her head and taking a quill before scribbling some lines and passing them to Caiside, who she does not know well enough to equate with iron, but she doubts her poem was meant for Sam. White as snow and brown as nut, From a foreign cloth I'm cut Friend of cats and birds and things, I pull poems out of strings. Then Sam passes a note to her, and Amalia reads it over, puzzled and impressed by his quickly-thought poem. Turning to look at the bookmaker with a slight frown, she purses her lips before guessing blindly. "Street lights?" a m a l i a She is messy, but she's kind She is lonely most of the time She is all of this mixed up and baked in a beautiful pie She is gone, but she used to be mine