"Tuatha de Muirenn..." As if he'd been ecstatic to hear it, he repeated after her. She was one of them, wasn't she? He wanted to guess what she played but, even if he could guess she had the skills of a musician, he wasn't so skilled that he'd know what her trade truly was and which one she called hers. Even so, as he felt the slightest pride for repeating after her in a more satisfying cadence, Sam grew still. Caoimhe had grown quiet for a moment, puzzled.

He hadn't thought what he said would mean quite so much to her--at best, hoping it would just be something kind to say that he could thank his father for. There were so many beautiful things written in those stories that he always thought it would be a dream to emulate even a small part of it. He always thought it was strange for the villain of the story to say such a kind thing to the twins when he was driven from the valley but, with time and age, he understood what the bitter old man meant by it. He hadn't doubted Caoimhe's generosity when she offered it so easily despite his own experiences--ones in which a kind, outreached hand could have simply been a feint to distract from the dagger clutched in the other. He couldn't detect an ounce of that evil in her when she reached out.

However, the brief state of her quiet left him briefly discomforted. In retrospect, it had been a hot day in Baldur's Gate. With her fair complexion, the sun itself could have been the distraction even if it was in the midst of setting. Could the heat have caught up with her? Puzzled, he held out a hand for her--hesitant.

"I'm not, no. I really would appreciate a chance to clean up and I could just as well use a razor and a mirror but," His smile, hesitant, turned easily into a little frown. "Are you? Is it the heat?"

A panicked thought came across him and he looked more stricken for it.

"Is it--do I smell? I've been walking for days and days--oh, gods, I'm absolutely foul, aren't I?"