[Seasonal Event] Good Gourd

Amalia i'll light a fire in your new shoes The behemoth's response is swift and sudden and wholly unexpected; for a moment, Amalia's hackles raise, concern that something has happened. Is there a source of danger, a demon in the dark: have the ghosts risen from the larder, intent on driving her from this place, she the unknowing, the unwilling, the undeserving? But no, the man's attention is focused on her, her and her impatience and subsequent pain. The waif flushes, cheeks warming sharply at the idea of causing such a reaction, of making a scene. Pins and needles prickle at her tongue, an expected outcome of such a foolish act, and the girl laughs suddenly at her own absurdity, self-conscious in the wake of unanticipated attention. She is happy when Rory's laughter joins her own: this is a reaction she can work with, far from the pressing severity of the larger man's concern. Smiling, she wipes the last crumbs from her lips before gesturing at the delicacies. "Try one and see." Reaching across the counter, she pushes the tray toward the man, an expression of hopeful uncertainty softening the angles of her face. Turning back to Deimos, the girl blinks to find him wholly absorbed in his work, the moment of tension apparently gone. Her hands fidget uncomfortably- had she imagined it? The intensity, the surprise? She glances at Rory and shakes her head, sharp shoulders rolling in a shrug. Gathering up the remainder of the scones, the girl sets them gingerly on a plate before rounding the edge of the counter and approaching the studious man. "Deimos, would you like one?" Amalia asks, her voice soft and earnest as she extends the laden plate. Dark eyes scrutinize the man's expression, searching for any indication of pleasure or disdain, unabashed and innocent in their need for validation, some reassurance that her offering is accepted, her friendship - if you can call it that - secure. image by tambako @ flickr.com