The Heartwood eye for an eye, heart for a heart

She at once appeared child-like and soft, but sensual and beautiful in the way of a siren woman. He could not tell if there was anything amiss which might cause her wariness; nor could he truly discern her age, only that her health appeared good, and by her own admission he was not at all imposing himself upon her. That was good. Mojag did not want to be a bother—and moreover, he was glad to not be sent away, although could not figure why. He was mentally muddled, and he did not know if he could leave even if the opportunity presented itself.

Her question brought a clear-headedness to him, for a moment.

I was, but not now. I travel. I am a trader, and... here, I can show you. It took effort to take his eyes from her, but he did it. A giddy sort of energy filled him as he looked away, and at once Mojag felt more like a boy than a man. He sought one of his secret places, quickly, and was thankful it was not too far.

When he returned within her sphere of influence (which seemed to be everywhere, intoxicating, sweet, and pleasant in a way he had not before experienced), he had for her a small bouquet: the last of his lavender, some wild sage, a yellow tulip. These he grasped with care between his teeth and laid before her.

It felt as if his heart might erupt out of his throat! But why? She was a stranger, and he dealt often with strangers—was it the late hour, he wondered? Was it the doe-eyed look upon her pretty face? Oh, he wasn't aware of romance—but such ideas sprang to mind now, and it was confusing.

A gift, if you'd like.