lay your soul onto mine
Flora slips quietly into the familiar gloom of the Thieves Guild tucked within the Hanged Man, the air warm and stale with old smoke, booze, and too many whispered secrets. Lanterns flicker low in sconces, casting dim pools of golden light over shelves crowded with mysterious parcels and crates, but Flora has eyes for none of them.
Today, there's nothing polished or poised about Torchline’s queen. Her golden curls tumble loose and wild down her back, a few strands tangled around gold hoops and necklaces that seem thrown on rather than carefully chosen. Her usual vibrant wrap dress—today a vivid cerulean—is slightly askew, the hemline uneven, as if she'd tugged it on hastily. Even her eyes hold a reckless brightness, edged in sleepless violet shadows; there's something feral and unpolished behind her typically controlled expression.
But beneath the disarray is purpose. Flora's fingers brush impatiently over various boxes, searching until they finally close around the small container labelled carefully in her own hand: Hadama. Her lips twitch into a satisfied smirk, and her heart gives a little thrill of relief—one rose to destroy, one more victory to present proudly to Dahlia. A simple task for an obedient Friend.
But when she flips open the box, the relief dies instantly.
Empty.
The sight slams into her like a physical blow, her breath hitching sharply. Frustration and fury rise rapidly, flooding through her veins with sickening heat. She snaps the lid shut with shaking fingers, her jaw clenched so tight she hears her teeth grind together. "Are you fucking kidding me?" Flora hisses to no one, to everyone—her voice a low, dangerous tremble as she pivots sharply on one heel and hurls the box across the shadowy room.
It hits the wall with a satisfying crack, splintering into pieces that scatter across the floor like debris after a storm. Her chest rises and falls quickly, nostrils flared, eyes glittering fiercely as she stares at the empty shelf, breathing heavily. She was too late, and the implications coil uneasily around her mind.
~FIN
Today, there's nothing polished or poised about Torchline’s queen. Her golden curls tumble loose and wild down her back, a few strands tangled around gold hoops and necklaces that seem thrown on rather than carefully chosen. Her usual vibrant wrap dress—today a vivid cerulean—is slightly askew, the hemline uneven, as if she'd tugged it on hastily. Even her eyes hold a reckless brightness, edged in sleepless violet shadows; there's something feral and unpolished behind her typically controlled expression.
But beneath the disarray is purpose. Flora's fingers brush impatiently over various boxes, searching until they finally close around the small container labelled carefully in her own hand: Hadama. Her lips twitch into a satisfied smirk, and her heart gives a little thrill of relief—one rose to destroy, one more victory to present proudly to Dahlia. A simple task for an obedient Friend.
But when she flips open the box, the relief dies instantly.
Empty.
The sight slams into her like a physical blow, her breath hitching sharply. Frustration and fury rise rapidly, flooding through her veins with sickening heat. She snaps the lid shut with shaking fingers, her jaw clenched so tight she hears her teeth grind together. "Are you fucking kidding me?" Flora hisses to no one, to everyone—her voice a low, dangerous tremble as she pivots sharply on one heel and hurls the box across the shadowy room.
It hits the wall with a satisfying crack, splintering into pieces that scatter across the floor like debris after a storm. Her chest rises and falls quickly, nostrils flared, eyes glittering fiercely as she stares at the empty shelf, breathing heavily. She was too late, and the implications coil uneasily around her mind.
~FIN
