At nearly seven months old the girl was tall, nearly full grown. She still had large feet to grow into, as was evident by their size, but beyond this she resembled an adult almost completely. Young and not sure of her role beyond that of a child, the crossed border of such a thing presented frightening possibilities. Yet here, in Salsola, she was safe—she was above others because of her bloodline. One day she would display this, but for now she was testing new waters and treading with slight trepidation.
Of course, her kelly-green eyes hardly looked the part as they focused on emerald, a color Salvia thought went well with the odd purple hair the stranger sported. Salvia’s ears perked up at her father’s name, and it was then she recalled why this pale girl seemed so familiar. “Yes,” came the proud reply. “And Eris is my mother, but you should know that,” she went on, advancing to stand next to the pretty woman only a few months older than she. “My father’s the one who brought you here, right? Like when he brought you to Anathema.” They had played there, once, and Salvia had remembered this. It had been a short-lived thing, for Magnolia had been taken away the next morning. Vaguely the earth-colored girl wondered if this was what Wretch might have looked like; a shadow crossed her face.
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