PoppyShe was always a blooming flower. A precious, exotic treasure amidst a garden of dried, cold-dead plants. A girl from nowhere who caught the eye of the wrong person, sold to a man whose name carried weight in the wastelands of the Northern Marches: a jarl with a taste for breaking things. They cut her tongue when she screamed. Took her eye when she fought back. Stole her name, and granted her one of their liking. Stripped her of everything, and left her in a cage of splintered wood and rags for the cold. A prisoner, dressed like a mistress. No one came for her. No one ever did. Until one cold, snowy night, someone did. They say the jarl died with a blood rose blooming in his throat. That when the sun rose, his keep was empty, except for the servants who had learned long ago to look away. Now, Poppy moves with Zephyr. She speaks in glances, in gestures, in the silent flicker of a knife. Half mute, half blind, and somehow more whole than most. She was the first to join the Roses, carrying a hatred for men that was quelled, if only barely, by the bloodweaver. |
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