"Either she's not so secretly one of us, or she's a bit...." The regal-looking elf frowned as the word he was looking for didn't immediately come to mind. He gestured subtly, making a little sound, and then in dismissing the idea to keep searching for a better word, turned his hand over again, making another goblet of the blackish wine appear in it.

"Perhaps it has something to do with this place...?" Mallia said, quietly.

"....Gifted and gullible," Sia said, looking back to her briefly. "That's more likely, I'd think." He brought the wine up to take a drink, but paused, eyeing it, frown deepening. "Oh, what am I even doing? It doesn't work on me anyway." He offered it over to Harry. "This, right here, is the real tragedy. Four thousand years old, and I've been immune to even the very finest wines ever crafted, for all but about the first mere hundred and fifty of those years! Tragic, I tell you!"