The smells that linger in the air around Iago aren't the same Amelia knows and loves from her home. The sharp tang of salt is missing, the temperature too warm, and the spices unfamiliar. But the way it all lingers on her tongue reminds her of the world she loves and has lost, and it makes her curious to find the origin of it. The man himself is no one of note, but he's more like what she remembers growing up around than most anything else around her. And so when he gestures to the open seat, speaks and asks his question, the rogue gracefully settles across from him.

"I have never met a wine that reminds me of home," she counters, the smile on her lips a touch wry. "Is it magic that makes it so?"

His pattern of speech is easy to slip into, a cadence more akin to what the nobility used on her world. It's not the same, but she can follow it easily enough. It makes her feel more at ease in her clothes - soft linens in forest greens, with gold embroidery along the seams and neckline, and a rich brown underbust corset about her waist - and with her hair braided and pinned up with a dark, polished silver pin. At least for the moment, it doesn't feel as if she's trying to fit into a world she wasn't made for.

"I do understand the feeling, often all too well. My home is lost to me, and some days I ache for it. The taste of the air, the sounds of the market, the color of the sky." She huffs a soft laugh. "Words can't describe the way being without it can make you feel. No one who hasn't been through it themselves can understand that pain."