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Title: Forest plums
’Verse/characters: Wild Roses, Isael
Prompt: 016 “Purple”
Word Count: 380
Rating: G
Fresh fruit could be had in this city at any season--as long as you were willing to pay the price of import--but late summer was when every shop in the city and half the street corners besides called out about their wares, offering thin slices of firm, soft, sweet, tangy, sour and subtle alike for samples. The docks reeked of spilled and dropped produce roasting in summer sun and soaking into salt-kissed wood, and sailors would offer pieces only slightly transport-damaged in exchange for help hauling the full crates to other ships, or the storehouses behind shops.
It was one of Isael’s favourite times of year, not only because of his mild addiction to honestly fresh fruit, but because almost no one would actually recognize him for a Sabaey, too busy trying to get crates out of the sun and glad for any helping hand’s offer.
Conall brought tiny sweet Trickwood plums when he came to visit, rucksack slung more gently than normal across his body to avoid bruising delicate-skinned dusty purple fruit, which they ate holed up in one of the Keep’s many overhanging balconies. They kept the pits in a neat pile between them after a careless flick over the edge of the raised wall had provoked an outraged squawk from below.
Peering over the edge of the balcony-battlements, they’d been graced with the sight of a proper old merchanting noblewoman fishing around in her generous cleavage for the errant pit. Conall had blushed bright red and sunk quickly back out of sight, while Isael had hung on the wall a little longer, laughing silently at the poor woman’s writhing, before dropping back down and reaching for another fruit. She’d been rather interesting--he was fairly sure she’d thrown the pit deliberately over another, even higher-trafficked edge after she’d gotten it out.
Conall had collected the pits--and a handful of peach and orange-skinned plum besides--to take back to the forest with him, to plant and see if anything grew for next year. Isael suspected that his cousin had planted the century-old trees he brought the plums from--he patted the rough-barked trunks and knew which branches wouldn’t hold a man’s weight in a way that spoke of long experience, and fondness besides.
’Verse/characters: Wild Roses, Isael
Prompt: 016 “Purple”
Word Count: 380
Rating: G
Fresh fruit could be had in this city at any season--as long as you were willing to pay the price of import--but late summer was when every shop in the city and half the street corners besides called out about their wares, offering thin slices of firm, soft, sweet, tangy, sour and subtle alike for samples. The docks reeked of spilled and dropped produce roasting in summer sun and soaking into salt-kissed wood, and sailors would offer pieces only slightly transport-damaged in exchange for help hauling the full crates to other ships, or the storehouses behind shops.
It was one of Isael’s favourite times of year, not only because of his mild addiction to honestly fresh fruit, but because almost no one would actually recognize him for a Sabaey, too busy trying to get crates out of the sun and glad for any helping hand’s offer.
Conall brought tiny sweet Trickwood plums when he came to visit, rucksack slung more gently than normal across his body to avoid bruising delicate-skinned dusty purple fruit, which they ate holed up in one of the Keep’s many overhanging balconies. They kept the pits in a neat pile between them after a careless flick over the edge of the raised wall had provoked an outraged squawk from below.
Peering over the edge of the balcony-battlements, they’d been graced with the sight of a proper old merchanting noblewoman fishing around in her generous cleavage for the errant pit. Conall had blushed bright red and sunk quickly back out of sight, while Isael had hung on the wall a little longer, laughing silently at the poor woman’s writhing, before dropping back down and reaching for another fruit. She’d been rather interesting--he was fairly sure she’d thrown the pit deliberately over another, even higher-trafficked edge after she’d gotten it out.
Conall had collected the pits--and a handful of peach and orange-skinned plum besides--to take back to the forest with him, to plant and see if anything grew for next year. Isael suspected that his cousin had planted the century-old trees he brought the plums from--he patted the rough-barked trunks and knew which branches wouldn’t hold a man’s weight in a way that spoke of long experience, and fondness besides.
