The straws of minimal hope had been lost to the depths of her mind, for she had to include herself into speaking. Once more; a hobby she could not overcome with ease. He was a stranger, wanting conversation with her, the lonesome girl who has stuck herself in the corner for the purposes of having been avoided, a plan which had gone unsuccessful. Her eyes were over his shoulder, staring at the grand, mahogany doors, with golden handles and a lion bust intricately carved, sitting plainly next to it. Emilia had been tensing herself, awaiting for someone to come barreling through the doors, shouting and screaming, arming themselves with guns or their own fists. One might have a disadvantage when fighting government officials, for they had the likeliness of being trained in fighting, while they didn't—Emilia needed to calm herself. Her thoughts were a spiraling madness, induced by fear which she happened to hide with a mask, a mask of plainness and blandness, a face which she could mimic ever so easily.
"I am a Whisperer. I put thoughts into people's heads." He could be her friend, but she shan't accept that, couldn't accept happiness or laughter, or even friendship. Emilia had lived her life, shrouded with people converted into normalcy and all these beliefs and politics and faithful recommendations. She was not like them, for they hadn't the capability of such odd abilities. But, here she was, in a room full of them. Emilia could make friends, or she could just let someone peer through her mask, figure out what makes her tick, or just to take a glimpse of her past self; of what she had been before her mother had passed.
Their was a thing called emotions, which she ever so disliked, for if she were to prove herself to be happy and laughing, that would clearly be a disappointment to her own self, for she was being happy without her mother. Carter spoke again, a question, something that none could answer, but Emilia had an opinionated answer.
"I haven't an idea, but I have a rather quaint feeling about this area, whether it be a trap or just some disguised joke—it just doesn't seem right." Emilia stated blatantly, before settling herself in a chair, finding little comfort in the plush pillows that overcrowded the seat, and the cloth fabric which was clearly sewn improperly. The stitching was overlapping in some certain places, while other pieces of fabric hung out, swinging in any breath or breeze. For being such a formal place, they didn't have the greatest furniture.