Rhythms of the Earth~(Wyldwing)

A slender frame, a sleek build outlined against the dark magenta of a setting sun. Brow hair blowing in the mid-summer winds. The heat was oppressive, beating down on the orchard workers as they labored, looking forward to the end of the day, which was approaching them quickly. Aradia reclined into the easily bending boughs of the apple tree, where she was camping out for the rest of the day. She had already finished her shift, and was waiting for someone to tell her to get herself working again, before they did _____<- insert punishment here to her. Again. They couldn't really harm her, not in any way. Nothing could. She had gone from frigid cold to blistering heat in just a few months.

The breeze did nothing to cool her sweaty face off, just as arid and dry as the rest of the district. She threw her head to the side in a vain attempt to rid herself of the heat, but nothing, nothing worked. Which was worse- death by sunstroke, or death by freezing? Right now, Aradia would have to say sunstroke. She wondered how Bartholomew dealt with being shut in a dank school house all day, or worked over a bunch of wheat, cutting bushel after bushel. At least at the top of the trees, there was some wind, something to keep you even moderately cool. It was a miracle no one had caught hey fever yet, or even worse. Everyday, she saw a field worker collapse into a heap from overheating. Another suffocating breeze blew towards her, shifting her hair in a weaving nest of thread around her head, waving to the rhythm of the earth.

Slowly, meaningfully, she lifted one thin crossed leg over the other one, to put them both out straight. She grabbed one of the spindly branches a little bit over her head, and lowered herself down to the lower trunk. The bark was rough under her hands, a firm anchor to the ground. She stared out through her sky blue eyes, indicating it would be clear skies for the rest of the day. Like it would rain. How long had it been since she had tasted cold water? She hadn't the money to afford a 'freezer' or a working tap. Now, all the water that came out would be warm, infected, and impossible to drink until you boiled all of the virulent germs out of it. Then it just tasted like chlorine. Everyday her little brother would go and look at the clouds, rain dance, do whatever he could with such enthusiasm you almost wanted to believe it was going to rain because of it. But of course it wouldn't. Such little child antics would never actually do anything.

Aradia felt her feet hit the dry, yellow ground where the remainders of soft blades of grass had once grown. Now they were little more than brittle stalks that poke your feet something awful if you dare to take your shoes off. She had done that once- and her feet had bled for 20 minutes, as the sharp edges still remained. They were called 'blades' for a reason. Dull voices drifted over, muted by the haze that lingered on the horizon. There was an undertone of excitement too, but one could not hear it unless they were listening. Aradia brushed back her hair behind her ears, to let them hear without obstruction. She pulled her fingers one by one, and heard a satisfying crack as each one loosened. Time to get to work. A confident half smile still lingered on her lips as she plunged through the wheat dividing the two sides of her orchard.

A single bead of sweat rolled down her heart shaped face, framed by a layer of dark, long hair that bounced around her with every step. She had put it up for climbing, into a large messy bun. Now it hung free around her back, swaying back and forth. She blinked once, her senses at levels higher than normal- almost like an animal on the hunt. Perhaps she had earned her nickname- Wolf. After all, she could detect things that perhaps no one else could. She'd never bother to find out though. That might take socialization, something Aradia boycotted whenever she could. Talking led to remembering. If someone remembered her face after she stole from them, how could she expect to get away? Already the peacekeepers had their eye on her, a known thief. Yet, they had no evidence that she had stolen recently. Aradia had to keep it that way, or else. She felt the scars on her back throbbing painfully, which had never healed quite right after the Whipping. Probably never would.