It was going to be another beautiful day; Fruitalia Torqueburn just knew it. She was up before the sunrise, a busy market day stretching ahead of her. The market itself lay all the way on the other side of town, nestled close to the old harbor – a relic from a time when Cape Lumous was a vibrant trading post, selling goods to countless sailors. Those days were long gone. After the Great Calamity, their entire landmass was quarantined, and not a single outsider had visited since. Some longed to move the market closer to the city’s heart, but Fruitalia was not among them. She loved the waterfront, its current peaceful quietude a balm to her soul. Though, she admitted, peace and quiet weren’t exactly good for business.
Still, on market days, many made the long trek to this side of town. Today promised to be even busier, with an event scheduled at the Arena later that evening. Fruitalia didn’t particularly care for the Arena; she found the competitive brawls less entertaining and more a slide toward savagery. But the Arena drew crowds, and its proximity to the market meant good business.
Fruitalia had her own stand, laden with every imaginable fruit. It was, in fact, how she’d earned her name. Adopted into the Torqueburn family, she had, from a very young age, shown an uncanny affinity for the delicious, juicy sweets that grew on trees. Being adopted had its benefits; Fruitalia could socialize freely with both the noble families and the sisterless. One of her closest noble friends was Lilirose Petalcrest, from the noblest of the noble families, whom Fruitalia was seeing later today. She was currently searching for the perfect plum to give her as a gift.
Fruitalia had many sisterless friends too, especially here in the market. There was Daisy, with her striking tri-tone hair of pink, black, and white. Daisy’s cows produced the creamiest milk, and Daisy always gifted Fruitalia a complimentary bottle on market day. Then there was Wendy, whose big, fussy blonde afro resembled the fluffy sheep she herded. Fruitalia adored the soft wool Wendy sold, and appreciated the generous discount she always received. Of course, Fruitalia repaid their kindness in kind, saving the very best fruit for her friends, loving the pure delight that lit their faces when they tasted her delicious offerings. She gathered some apples, ready for Serena and her horses, who were arriving shortly with her fresh stock.
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Fruitalia eagerly awaited the latest produce, noting with interest that some purple grapes had been included. “Compliments from Vinalia,” Serena explained as she dismounted. “She said they weren’t worthy of being turned into wine, and offered them to us for free.”
“Thanks, I’ll see how much I can sell them for.” Serena helped offload the rest of the produce, then rode off. Fruitalia settled in, patiently awaiting her first customer. The sun was barely peeking over the horizon, so most people would still be sleeping, but to her surprise, someone approached.
“How much for the grapes?”
Fruitalia was stunned. The girl was enormous, carrying a giant war hammer. She must be here for the Arena. “Um, I’ll tell you what, if you buy some milk from my friend Daisy over there, you can have them for free.”
“That’s very kind of you. My name is Bridget, by the way.”
“Fruitalia. Pleasure to meet you. Are you competing in the Arena tonight?”
Bridget let out a shy, rumbling laugh, glancing down at her colossal war hammer. “I guess this speaks for itself. And yes, it will be my first time, so I’m a little nervous.”
“I’d be nervous if I had to fight against you!” Fruitalia replied genuinely.
“Ah, you’re too kind. Come watch later tonight; it will be fun.” Bridget bought three large bottles of milk from Daisy, then returned for her complimentary grapes. “These look delicious,” she declared, dropping a whole bunch of them into her mouth in one go.
“So, do you know who you’re fighting tonight?” Fruitalia asked.
Even with a full mouth, Bridget attempted a reply, grape juice dribbling down her chin. “Yeah, apparently I’ve got an easy first fight. Some scrawny noble, ginger-haired sister who looks more like someone who makes weapons than wields one. The poor thing’s name is Techa. Have you heard of her?”
Fruitalia’s jaw dropped. “Yes,” she stammered, her voice barely a whisper. “Techa Torqueburn. She is my sister.”
