In a dark and deep land lives young Marjorie, a woman desperate for something more than her conventional life in her tiny village, Core. She aches for something dangerous, something like the dark forest, Mirkwood, which borders her home.
Yet, there...
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Author's Note:
Thank you for reading this far! If you would like to know what the world looks like-- there is a map of the surroundings! I look forward to your feedback!
The frantic raven in Marjorie's grasp fought against the palms of her tight hands. Twine pinned its inky wings against its dark, slender body, forcing the little beast to remain in her grasp. Its black beak pecked impatiently at its feathers, and then the pale skin of the young woman's wrist, until it dug into the freckled tops of her knuckles.
"Ow," Marjorie whispered. Beady eyes stared up at her with no acknowledgment to her pain. She huffed. This is not how she planned to spend her morning, pecked to death by a feathered rat. "Stop it, you damn bird."
Even as she said it, empathy swelled in her chest for the poor thing. If Marjorie were in the same position, stuck inside a stranger's grasp, she would twist and fight against her captor, too.
She blamed her frustrations on the heavy stone turning in her stomach. Like every Eve, the day was bleak. Last year, she spent the day watching from her bedroom window, wondering who would be dead by the end of tomorrow. Today had no room for morbid curiosity like years before.
The unwavering sun beat down on Marjorie's back. A nice day was seldom seen in Core. The villagers in line smiled with their pockets of coins and bartering goods. They took the weather as a sign of luck.
Marjorie refused to give up her bad mood.
She stood impatiently in her worn leather boots. Their once-hard soles were now soft and cracking from the years she used them. She was pretty for a village girl, with a heart-shaped face and a thin, long nose. Her eyes were a flat cobalt, like half of all the villagers, and no matter what angle one watched her from, orange freckles could be seen. On top of her head grew a wild heap of fire-colored curls that reached her shoulder blades.
"Two silver, please," the short, old woman requested from behind the wooden countertop. She reached out her wrinkled hand, palms up and waiting for payment. She wore gaudy jewelry imported from Beyond on every single thin finger. Her hair was gray from age, but she offered a tender smile. Between her lips, Marjorie could see empty space where missing teeth once existed. Layers of bright clothing hung from her scraggy shoulders like fabric sticking to a tree branch.
"Of course, Blanchette," Marjorie answered. She shoved a free hand into the dark purple fabric of her dress. She dropped two silvers, the last of what she earned in the Garden, into Blanchette's tan palm.
"Thank you, dearie," the merchant said. She pocketed the money into the main hidden compartments of her clothing. Her eyes, once a dark brown, now a foggy blue from cataracts, stared into the general direction of where Marjorie stood. "You know, killing a raven always brings good luck," she whispered.
The old woman reached a finger covered in brown age-spots to the beak of the furious little thing. With gentle strokes and low shushing, its black beady eyes closed, overtaken by calmness. Blanchette's expression softened at the response.
