Silk
Rosethorn wandered the streets of Chammur, amused. She had returned from finishing her work in the fields to find the house by the Water Temple empty, and half the plants in the city humming with her erratic student's magic. She could only vaguely wonder what mayhem he might have performed to cause this, but she had a feeling it would be monstrous. She couldn't wait to see it.
Turning down a corner, a large vine that practically blazed with Briar's magic dropped on her. She stroked it gently, and listened to it speak of Briar. According to the vine's connection to the other plants in the city, Briar had been wreaking havoc in a takameri's house in the Jeweled Crescent, the richest district in Chammur, and the plants there were in ecstasy.
She wandered a bit more, speaking with a few other plants, but as she got closer, she no longer needed their assistance to find the house. Here, not just the plants were in a riotous mood, the people were, too. She elbowed her way through the crowd until she reached the house. A few choice words got her inside the gate. She roved the ruined halls of the house, admiring the destruction Briar had caused. It was destruction well-deserved, and she knew that the house would never be returned to anything resembling normal. The plants may have parted to let her through, but she had a feeling this was a special privilege for her.
She stopped in one room, brushing aside the leaves of a willow in the doorway until she could stand straight without hitting her head on branches and brambles, surveying the damage. Nearly everything in the room, clearly formerly a sitting room, was in pieces. Walls crumbled, bits of expensive wooden furniture scattered, and stone statues lay in fragments on the floor. However, lying untouched in the middle of a table in a corner, lay a green silk scarf, shot through with golden threads. It was beautiful, shining in the light through a hole in the ceiling.
She picked it up; caressing its fine, tight weave, fingering the delicately laced fringe on the end. It was so smooth, so sheer. Memories rushed at her. A girl, clad in green and yellow silks, dancing closer; tight, shiny curls bouncing, a wicked smile on her tan, cat-like face. The lightness of foot, so like a bird. Smooth supple skin, stretched over strong muscles. Smooth like silk. A small smile crossed Rosethorn's face, a smile of longing. She knew, thousands of miles away, a soft, sweet-spoken woman, sitting at a loom in a temple, echoed that smile.