Scent of Home

Adam's reassurances do not have their desired effect, though the implications of the girl's poverty pass unnoticed. As far as the Hollowed Grounds are concerned she is fairly well-established: a shopkeeper, the last daughter of a respected family. There are no rich in Caido, for their are no riches, only what one can trade for or build. An eyebrow arches on her sculpted face, and she lets her fingers slip beneath the counter to where a long length of wood lay ready, just in case. But the man's easy smile disarms the girl, the way he speaks so lightly of his plight strangely charming, leaving her bemused. She listens intently as he tells her about his arrival, his belief that they are dead. Shaking her head, Amalia blinks at the description of a 'raggy thing'. "Ludo," the scholar quietly corrects, a stern edge to her voice, arms folding across her chest. "It holds the souls that are lost for Mort." The question about her living arrangements elicits a half-smile from the girl, who cannot fathom any life other than this. "I was born here." Finally at ease enough to return to her work, Amalia's deft fingers dip back into the bowl of dough, pulling out the sticky mess and placing it on the counter. "What was it like, where you came from?" Pulling up her sleeves to reveal tanned, strong arms, the baker begins to knead, her dark eyes alight with curious interest as she waits for Adam's reply. amalia been talking to myself forever and how I wish I knew me better