Amalia
the shield of safrin
Uneventful seems unlikely given Loren's expression, but for once Amalia chooses not to pry, a blush of her own blooming at the clear implication, her smile wicked as she looks at her friend. "Also eventful, though probably less fun," she answers instead with a touch of seriousness, her tone falling somber at the end. "Deaths, burning buildings, skeleton luxere... normal LongNight things."
She raises an eyebrow in mock surprise, shaking her head with a playful grin. "Bread? That might be difficult, but let me see what I can do." She's finally finished her first cup of wine, and it's beginning to get to her a little, lightweight that she is. As Loren continues explaining his plans she makes her way to the back once more, opening doors and gathering the fixings for sandwiches. "What kind of school?" she calls back, interest piqued by this piece of news. Shutting a cupboard with her foot, she returns to the counter, carrying a tray of savory jams and cured partridge.
"We always sort of... had people taught us. Nothing particularly structured. My grandmother taught lore and history, my mom taught medicine, a grumpy old librarian taught us reading and math..." She places the food down with a shrug, a nostalgic expression on her angular faces. Their community had been smaller, then, close, truly a village raising its children in tandem.
How she misses those days.
She raises an eyebrow in mock surprise, shaking her head with a playful grin. "Bread? That might be difficult, but let me see what I can do." She's finally finished her first cup of wine, and it's beginning to get to her a little, lightweight that she is. As Loren continues explaining his plans she makes her way to the back once more, opening doors and gathering the fixings for sandwiches. "What kind of school?" she calls back, interest piqued by this piece of news. Shutting a cupboard with her foot, she returns to the counter, carrying a tray of savory jams and cured partridge.
"We always sort of... had people taught us. Nothing particularly structured. My grandmother taught lore and history, my mom taught medicine, a grumpy old librarian taught us reading and math..." She places the food down with a shrug, a nostalgic expression on her angular faces. Their community had been smaller, then, close, truly a village raising its children in tandem.
How she misses those days.
you are slowly growing
but you are still growing
and that is enough
