I like shiny things, but I'd marry you with paper rings
The problem with trying to recreate Deepfrost activities in Torchline is, of course, the heat. Standing barefoot in the middle of the kitchen, Flora stares down at the increasingly sad drift of shaved ice on the counter with a look of wounded offence. The Halovian activity book lies open beside her beneath the stained-glass wash of morning light, its pages bright with cheerful illustrations of children in scarves building perfect snow forts, throwing perfect snowballs, and generally living lives that have clearly never included humidity.
Spice, for her part, looks deeply pleased with herself, at least. "Yes, okay, technically you are doing amazing," Flora says, pointing the cheese grater at the little white dragon with all the authority of a queen addressing a valued but slightly smug member of court. "This is not about your performance, babe. Your ice is gorgeous. Very artisanal. Very luxury cocktail bar. It’s just that whoever wrote this book has clearly never had to make snow in a tropical kitchen with kitchen tools and dragons."
A neat little block of ice sits in a bowl in front of her, already slicking the ceramic with cold water as the edges soften. Spice huffs another pale breath across it, frosting it back into firmness with a pleased little chirrup, and Flora immediately attacks it with the grater again, curls of ice skittering across the counter and catching in the ridges of her tight waffle-knit shirt. She is dressed, despite the weather and the general lack of snow within several hundred miles: longjohns tucked neatly beneath her shirt, a winter pom-pom hat perched over her golden curls, and an expression of total commitment that would have been heroic if she were not currently muttering at frozen shavings.
"Okay. Okay, that’s kind of something." Scooping the shaved ice together with both hands, Flora presses it into a lump, frowns as half of it crumbles wetly through her fingers, then scoops it back up and tries again with the fierce optimism of someone who has absolutely decided this is going to be fun whether physics agrees or not. The snowball, when she finally manages to form it, is not exactly round. It leans slightly to one side, but as Flora lifts it in both palms, Spice gives an approving trill, hopping along the counter with enough excitement to send a scatter of ice crystals across the children's book.
"We're gonna get him so good," she whispers, glancing toward the doorway before crouching low behind the kitchen island, her pom-pom bobbing once before she yanks it down with one hand and clutches the snowball carefully in the other. The marble is cold against her shoulder where she presses herself beneath the counter, and though she has to tuck her knees awkwardly beneath her, there is a deep and immediate satisfaction in committing this hard to something this stupid.
"Kaaaaaaaaaaai?" Flora calls, pitching her voice loud enough to carry through Wildering House, sweet and innocent in a way that will probably immediately make him suspicious. "Can you come here for a second? I need help with something." She waits, biting the inside of her lip as Spice creeps closer to the edge of the counter above her, tail twitching with treacherous delight. The second she hears him close enough, Flora rises in a rush of longjohns, curls, and winter hat, laughing already as she winds her arm back. The snowball leaves her hand in a bright, icy blur, badly packed and half-shedding.
Spice, for her part, looks deeply pleased with herself, at least. "Yes, okay, technically you are doing amazing," Flora says, pointing the cheese grater at the little white dragon with all the authority of a queen addressing a valued but slightly smug member of court. "This is not about your performance, babe. Your ice is gorgeous. Very artisanal. Very luxury cocktail bar. It’s just that whoever wrote this book has clearly never had to make snow in a tropical kitchen with kitchen tools and dragons."
A neat little block of ice sits in a bowl in front of her, already slicking the ceramic with cold water as the edges soften. Spice huffs another pale breath across it, frosting it back into firmness with a pleased little chirrup, and Flora immediately attacks it with the grater again, curls of ice skittering across the counter and catching in the ridges of her tight waffle-knit shirt. She is dressed, despite the weather and the general lack of snow within several hundred miles: longjohns tucked neatly beneath her shirt, a winter pom-pom hat perched over her golden curls, and an expression of total commitment that would have been heroic if she were not currently muttering at frozen shavings.
"Okay. Okay, that’s kind of something." Scooping the shaved ice together with both hands, Flora presses it into a lump, frowns as half of it crumbles wetly through her fingers, then scoops it back up and tries again with the fierce optimism of someone who has absolutely decided this is going to be fun whether physics agrees or not. The snowball, when she finally manages to form it, is not exactly round. It leans slightly to one side, but as Flora lifts it in both palms, Spice gives an approving trill, hopping along the counter with enough excitement to send a scatter of ice crystals across the children's book.
"We're gonna get him so good," she whispers, glancing toward the doorway before crouching low behind the kitchen island, her pom-pom bobbing once before she yanks it down with one hand and clutches the snowball carefully in the other. The marble is cold against her shoulder where she presses herself beneath the counter, and though she has to tuck her knees awkwardly beneath her, there is a deep and immediate satisfaction in committing this hard to something this stupid.
"Kaaaaaaaaaaai?" Flora calls, pitching her voice loud enough to carry through Wildering House, sweet and innocent in a way that will probably immediately make him suspicious. "Can you come here for a second? I need help with something." She waits, biting the inside of her lip as Spice creeps closer to the edge of the counter above her, tail twitching with treacherous delight. The second she hears him close enough, Flora rises in a rush of longjohns, curls, and winter hat, laughing already as she winds her arm back. The snowball leaves her hand in a bright, icy blur, badly packed and half-shedding.
and I hate accidents except when we went from friends to this
