<hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://t1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQ1DnvOXG8yfRJcl9oCLH9JK7uCu0ui5FQU47YO2vGN1qTD4nxY)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Jia Li<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>Unknown<br/><strong>Date:</strong>Two days before game start<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Morning<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Bodega de Goni<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Onneca de Goni<br/><hr/><br/>A bow was made when the basket was touched upon.  The offer of a biscuit almost forgotten as the task at hand became evident.  Small hands moved to grasp and move the basket of laundry to be cleaned.  Hands guided by experience began to sort and sift, moving the clothing to a mode that she could easily carry on her back and in her arms.  Muscles showed themselves true as she worked and shoulders stronger than her size promised flexed to move the laundry.  Few people considered clothing to be heavy, but Jia Li had learned the hard way to be careful in carrying such packs.  Eyes flashed to look on the lotions and dresses, to see the hallmarks of the feminine condition.  Jia Li knew that using such things was vanity and old words spoke shame to her.<br/><br/>“Jia Li is Jia Li.”<br/><br/>When the glass container emerged with the promised biscuit, the girl nearly dropped the laundry in surprise.  People had promised treats in the past but always at cost.  For someone to simply bring forth something so delicious without cause was unexpected.  Brimming with excitement the small woman nearly leapt up into a seat.  Seeming to defy the purpose of the chair, the legs folded beneath her in an odd formation.  She bowed deeply from her folded position, accepting the biscuit with more flourish than might be necessary.  Eagerly the biscuit was put into her mouth while the other woman continued to speak with words little understood.<br/><br/>Most favorite color struck her as an odd question.  There had never been much thought about which colors appealed to her the most.  Truth be told the color she could obtain had always been her favorite.  The red of discard scarfs, the yellows of tattered silk and the rare purple of fallen stones were all important to her.  Each was collected by her eagerly like a mouse taking bits back to the nest.  A confused look crossed her features while she continued to nibble on the biscuit, giving thought to the question before she lifted her hand to gesture toward the simple color of green.  Behind that simple color were lost relics of home and the green fields of endless grass, the rising trees and the land she had lost.  Here there was so little green, so little beauty of such magnitude.  Then her hand moved to gesture toward the color of yellow as she thought on the sun rise of her homeland.  A shrug soon followed.<br/><br/>“Many colors, all pretty.  How can one favorite when all pretty, all not same?”<br/>