From A Seed Gifted

I. The seller's silver tongue

In drifting streams, light bled into the indigo sky. Fallon awoke, perspiration beading upon her skin as pearls of early morning dew. Her hands rose with a familiar gesture, her muscles, pained and rigid. Frozen for a moment, she waited, inhaling shallow breaths as she listened to her heart race, and the tortured screams of a murky past that she was no longer sure were real. Closing her eyes, she remained in utter stillness, (a skill that she had learnt from skulking by in back alleys and illegal taverns from an early age) the moonlight silently bathing her ornamental likeness, until loneliness clung to her once more, as though a familiar but somber shadow.

Time seemed to slow to a creeping pace before her tensed figure wearily relaxed. Letting out a sigh, she fell heavily against the spongey centre of the giant Regal flower, the softness molding to her drained slightness. Covering her face with both hands, she shivered as she reminded herself that she was alone and safe, that no-one was hunting her (for the moment anyway). Her past crimes were just one more reason to stay ahead of those always reaching for the backs of her heels, as she fled. Flinching, she brought her knees up as her body ached with hunger and fatigue, a reminder of her most recent reckless decision, to enter the trials of Victori Villvosk.

Exhausted, she shook her head and rolled onto her back, tired and hungry she looked up, her churning feelings slowly beginning to seep into the background, the longer she stared at the sky. Sleeping out under the stars had never become tiresome to her, as evidenced by her soft gaze tinged with a bearly discernable grief. Though to anyone else her gaze would have looked almost lifeless.

Lying in the centre bloom that she had inherited, she watched its silken petals glimmer under the waning moonlight. A divine creation of her mother's magic, the flowering beauty of twisting bark and laden blooms was a vision to behold, giving life to her mother's memory - and a home for herself, and in the past, her friend, Jovanna. As always, at the mere thought of her, came the haunting flashes of her last moments.

Lost in unpleasant thoughts, it wasn't long before unease crept up on her, and not for the first time, it thrummed through her veins. The feeling reminiscent of pinned butterfly wings, slyly held beneath devious fingertips in an ever futile struggle. The thought of signing her name later that day for the upcoming trials, was in a constant tug-of-war between her head and her heart. It was both her best and her last hope, although she wondered if it was actually just prolonging her winding road to death, yet the trials of Victori Villvosk still remained a faint ember in her otherwise bleak world.

A familiar ache sprang to life in her chest when she thought of returning to her home town of Brighsol for the trials. The hardship and cruelty in the overburdened streets, reminded her of her life in the orphanage there, a time that had been both wonderful and difficult, the latter feeling, the more constant of the two. The swarm of butterflies that had begun to settle, rose once more with the sudden thought of seeing those that she had left behind. She still felt a shade of guilt at leaving the others, and she missed Liza's hearty but caring character. She sighed as her stomach clenched, and despite her anguish and exhaustion, she stood. The morning’s chill a stinging reminder that she should be on her way to the black market - with the sight of the yawning tree tops and the sound of the birds rustling wings, she formesked, her body merging with the cold air.

The icy winds disappeared as the crystal remains of snowflakes settled, having melted into her skin as she reappeared, her feet having touched down with a soft thud. Hidden in the shadows, and looking to see if her sudden appearance had gone unnoticed, she carefully walked around to a nearby tavern's back door. The dark stonework woven with crooked beams, there to welcome her.

Standing beside the door, she saw the familiar sight of Ira, who never spoke (after apparently having had his tongue cut out) the man, tall and broad-shouldered even with his stoop, swept into a low bow. Most of the time he was still and observant, and she had the impression that that was exactly how he had lost his tongue - but when she passed him by, a smile would often lift the corners of his trembling lips as he raised his chin in greeting and stepped aside. She lowered her head in greeting, stretching forward to grasp the handle with a curtsy of her own, causing his smile to broaden.