KOA
She lifts her chin in that defiant way he's come to know so well, and Koa feels a rush of something he doesn't dare name. It's cruel, how easily her hand fits in his, how comfortable he feels with it there. It doesn't mean anything, he has to remind himself. And when she asks him not to leave her it's a punch in the gut, the answer immediate in his mind, sliding on his tongue, so obvious, so wrong. Never, he has no right to say.
He settles for squeezing her hand too tightly, throat bobbing as he swallows, hard.
They move into the tavern together, the Dragoon and his flock. Koa keeps Floras right hand gripped tightly in his left as they push into the entryway, grimacing at the chaos and din. Hooking a chair with his ankle, Koa drags it toward him and springs atop. He nods to the soldiers, waiting for them to spread to position before raising his fingers to his lips. A sharp, shrill whistle cuts the melee, loud enough to make the fighters look up in surprise.
"Alright, folks, time to pack it up!" This is met, predictably, with a series of groans and 'Boos'. Raising his right hand in a placating gesture, he goes on, calm but firm: "Now you can either leave of your own volition and take the party somewhere else, or Torchline's Finest will escort you out, and you can spend a nice evening in the barracks. Your choice," he finishes mildly, copper eyes hard above a friendly smile.
Most of the revelers take the hint. A solid handful don't. For those who protest, the guards move forward, grasping shoulders and threatening handcuffs if the assholes won't shove off. But one particular asshole takes things a step further. Koa sees the bottle raised in a scarred hand, sees the way the eyes gleam and knows the target isn't him. "Flora!" he shouts out in warning, leaping off the chair and in the path of the assailant. His body curls like a shield around Torchline's Queen, shoulders hunching as he braces for impact. He'd take a hundred bottles to the head before allowing one to touch a hair on hers.
He settles for squeezing her hand too tightly, throat bobbing as he swallows, hard.
They move into the tavern together, the Dragoon and his flock. Koa keeps Floras right hand gripped tightly in his left as they push into the entryway, grimacing at the chaos and din. Hooking a chair with his ankle, Koa drags it toward him and springs atop. He nods to the soldiers, waiting for them to spread to position before raising his fingers to his lips. A sharp, shrill whistle cuts the melee, loud enough to make the fighters look up in surprise.
"Alright, folks, time to pack it up!" This is met, predictably, with a series of groans and 'Boos'. Raising his right hand in a placating gesture, he goes on, calm but firm: "Now you can either leave of your own volition and take the party somewhere else, or Torchline's Finest will escort you out, and you can spend a nice evening in the barracks. Your choice," he finishes mildly, copper eyes hard above a friendly smile.
Most of the revelers take the hint. A solid handful don't. For those who protest, the guards move forward, grasping shoulders and threatening handcuffs if the assholes won't shove off. But one particular asshole takes things a step further. Koa sees the bottle raised in a scarred hand, sees the way the eyes gleam and knows the target isn't him. "Flora!" he shouts out in warning, leaping off the chair and in the path of the assailant. His body curls like a shield around Torchline's Queen, shoulders hunching as he braces for impact. He'd take a hundred bottles to the head before allowing one to touch a hair on hers.
With each love I cut loose, I was never the same
Watching still living roots be consumed by the flame
Watching still living roots be consumed by the flame
