flora
The Tavern is closed, the sign on the door reading Private Function, come back later. On one of the central tables nearest to the bar—located well within 30ft of the back rooms Flora knows, having measured it with Jack's assistance—a pair of candles have been set along with two of her finest glasses. The Doubletake hasn't gone so far as to assume what the Reaper would like to drink, but instead has simply ensured a full supply of every type of liquor the Hanged Man normally supplied.
Dressed simply, business casual it might be described in another world, Flora is the picture of put together and ready; so long as Dahlia doesn't have the same sort of telepathy that Jack does, no one but the captain will know just how nervous she is. And if Dahlia does? Well, then none of it probably matters anyway.
Taking a breath and rolling her shoulders away from her ears, Flora flounces out toward the patio, her eyes on the sea and Starfall to await the arrival of her guest of honour.
Dressed simply, business casual it might be described in another world, Flora is the picture of put together and ready; so long as Dahlia doesn't have the same sort of telepathy that Jack does, no one but the captain will know just how nervous she is. And if Dahlia does? Well, then none of it probably matters anyway.
Taking a breath and rolling her shoulders away from her ears, Flora flounces out toward the patio, her eyes on the sea and Starfall to await the arrival of her guest of honour.
what doesn't kill me makes
me want you more
me want you more
