She walked up to a stand selling cherries. Blood red and bone white, glistening in the sunlight. A food that could sustain someone for days at a time. They were grown on the banks of the blood river and watered with bone marrow.
“How much for a bag of half bone cherries half blood cherries?” She asked
“3 Obols for one bag of blood cherries, four for a split.” He replied
“I’ll make you a deal,” she said. “I’ll let you give me half a bag of blood cherries and half a bag of bone cherries, for a deal of two Obols.”
The shop keeper looked confused, as though he had to ponder whether this was worth it
“Okay” he said, “But If you don’t mind me asking, where might your mother be?”
She glared at him
“Whether my mother is with me or not is none of your business kind sir. Now I think it best if you hand over my cherries and let me be on my way.”
The shop keeper scowled in disdain and shoved the bag of cherries at her
“Well excuse me for trying to be helpful to you, ‘lass. I was just hoping to talk to a more reasonable individual whose comments don’t make my head spin with complex answers!”
