He's blushing. Roesia keeps smiling, reaching up with inked fingers to push some hair out of her face.

"I do not come to the village much," she tells him - admits, even sounds a bit sheepish about it. Would that she could! Would that those in the village would learn of the truest way to worship, of the way the elements are all a part of them and that what they call profane activity is simply a natural extension of that. The gods have given them gifts, and for what? To have them thrown away?

"But my name is Roesia."