And it feels like me on a good day [seasonal event]

a m a l i a His faltering knowledge of the Old Gods is enough to set the girl further at ease. The Atheneum earns her another point: at least he has tried to learn the old ways. "Nobody has heard from the old gods for years," the girl affirms, her own shrug echoing his own. A smile softens the edges of her face. "But I am glad others still pray." She watches him as he wanders closer, wishing he would sit instead of stand. It puts her at a disadvantage, forces her to either move or crane her neck, and perhaps she would have restated the issue, should the luxere not have chosen that moment to appear. As it is the annoyance is quickly forgotten, washed away in the joy of something beautiful, something good and pure. "He," Amalia repeats in a reverent whisper, her breath forming pockets of icy steam. The buck steps closer and she rises to her knees, still quiet despite her quickening heart. Twenty one winters, and the sight still entrances her. She is a child in the face of wonder. But then there is something dirty, something dark and black to shade her mirth. The request for a song pulls Amalia from her reverie; she falters, falls back, ugly anxiety rearing its cruel head. She does not sing on command - cannot, has not since she was a girl and things were so different, and she was not alone. "I-" She is not the only one faltering. As though sensing her trepidation, the luxere pauses in his approach, suddenly not sure these humans are worth his time. Stupid, stupid! Amalia thinks, shame rising hot to kiss her face. A moment ago she was singing, a moment ago it was fine. Again she tries, but her voice catches in her throat, dies in a strangled and pointless note. Defeated, she falls back onto her heels, hands clenched into furious fists. "Will you, instead?" She does not look at the tall stranger: her eyes are cast down on the ground, since at least dirt cannot judge her. As far as she knows.