He laid the offerings upon the table. A lock of hair. A crumpled photograph. A metal locket, carved with an intricate design of vines and flowers.
“A trade?” rasped the cloaked figure.
The man nodded.
“This is paltry. Worthless!” The trader leaned forward. The man smelled cinnamon. “You would not offer it if you still wanted it. It has no value.”
“It is what I am willing to trade.”
“You treasure something more than your blood-kin? Your memories? Your love?” Teeth gleamed in the darkness. “Trade that to me.”
The man shook his head. “My revenge is all I have.”
Vossler on Soaping and Writing
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