The lake is not quite the same, is it? The sea is like the desert; she breathes, she lives, she moves. [In that they are the same as well, the echo of his longing for the ocean resounding with Alia's longing for the sands.

Another slow sip of her drink, eyes tracking the flicker of something on the air -- special, something special, hidden within this man, this newfound spark of something. Then Alia sets the glass aside, sitting up, hair tumbling loose over her shoulders as she strokes her fingers through his mind, skimming through thoughts, memory, finding the threads of his magic, his gift, calling to them with the gifts she holds as well. Same, you and I, we are the same.

But woven within these sensations is something else, and Alia's brow knits briefly, tasting the fear, the hopelessness, the loss in his mind.] The stars gave this gift to their lost child for when he travelled far from the seas. When he was taken from them. [One hand reaches out, finds Quentin's, fingers oddly callused for someone so slight, so pale.] Taken from the sea.