Glade 31, 120
“...you stood in the colorful night market with pyramids of bright fruit piled high...” - Brenda Hillman
Most of the fruit, piled in careless rainbow stacks, was going bad. The green apples were dull and stained with patches of soft brown, the gold and pink plums split, the yellow insides ripe with too-sweet juice, and the dark purple-red figs sat shamelessly.
Urs's fingers brushed against an orange. It was firm, and the peel felt waxy and still warm from the afternoon heat, although the sun had set some time ago. He grabbed it and paid the vendor, an older man who filled the space between them with promises of fresher fruit tomorrow. Urs broke through the rind, exposing the bright white-orange center.
With a breath, a practiced sigh, his magic seeped into the fruit. The smell, a heavy fog of citrine, poured like thick molasses into the air. He counted ten segments, each one an almost perfect fleshy crescent. His smell poked and prodded, discovering the thin seeds - eight in total. Each piece of the orange was delicate and fit to burst, the juice so sweet it tasted sour.
Urs walked through the night market as he ate. He ignored the merchants as he navigated between the stalls, using his spells to examine the candied vegetables, jarred panacea, and jewelry.
Urs, distracted, turned a corner into a dark alley. He was surprised, but before he could turn back, he found a knife pointed at his back -- and deep voice, demanding all his money.
