flora
Flora’s lips twitch into a not-quite smile at Maea’s word choice, but she doesn’t correct her. Doesn’t agree either. She just lets the compliment hang in the air like incense smoke—sweet, unacknowledged, and faintly disorienting. "Heroic," she echoes, the word rolling off her tongue like it’s in a language she doesn’t quite trust anymore, before shaking her head. "This place used to be my home. It was where I was born."
When it’s her turn, she slides up to the bar with the ease of someone used to commanding attention—bright jewelry clinking, her hand already raised in a slight wave before the bartender can fully make eye contact. "Something citrusy, with a burn," she tells him, then adds, almost as an afterthought, "And if it could come with some deeply satisfying vengeance, that’d be great."
As the bartender nods and moves, Flora leans on her elbows beside Maea, facing the crowd now. From a distance, she could be mistaken for perfectly at ease—weight balanced evenly, head tilted thoughtfully, gold catching the light at her ears and wrists. But up close, there’s too much tension in her fingers where they twist her ring around and around. Her eyes are too still. Too bright. "You gather right," she says finally, voice light but far from soft before some violet flush in the back of her mind softens her shoulders.
"Really it was my fault, though. Obviously the Family weren't going to be happy with me undoing all their hard work, so what was I expecting? And Pierce wasn't actually meant to kill me, just send a warning. It wasn't his fault that Jack was with me at the time, or that the rapier he used can just...deal killing blows."
She pauses as her drink arrives, curling her fingers around the glass. It’s bright yellow, sharp-smelling, a halo in liquid form. "Having Jack die in my arms was the worst part." That was certainly true, violet-overlay or not. Finally, she lifts the glass and takes a slow sip, eyes narrowing as the burn hits the back of her throat. When she sets it down again, her fingers tap the rim, rhythmic and restless.
"Anyway. What was it you needed to know?"
When it’s her turn, she slides up to the bar with the ease of someone used to commanding attention—bright jewelry clinking, her hand already raised in a slight wave before the bartender can fully make eye contact. "Something citrusy, with a burn," she tells him, then adds, almost as an afterthought, "And if it could come with some deeply satisfying vengeance, that’d be great."
As the bartender nods and moves, Flora leans on her elbows beside Maea, facing the crowd now. From a distance, she could be mistaken for perfectly at ease—weight balanced evenly, head tilted thoughtfully, gold catching the light at her ears and wrists. But up close, there’s too much tension in her fingers where they twist her ring around and around. Her eyes are too still. Too bright. "You gather right," she says finally, voice light but far from soft before some violet flush in the back of her mind softens her shoulders.
"Really it was my fault, though. Obviously the Family weren't going to be happy with me undoing all their hard work, so what was I expecting? And Pierce wasn't actually meant to kill me, just send a warning. It wasn't his fault that Jack was with me at the time, or that the rapier he used can just...deal killing blows."
She pauses as her drink arrives, curling her fingers around the glass. It’s bright yellow, sharp-smelling, a halo in liquid form. "Having Jack die in my arms was the worst part." That was certainly true, violet-overlay or not. Finally, she lifts the glass and takes a slow sip, eyes narrowing as the burn hits the back of her throat. When she sets it down again, her fingers tap the rim, rhythmic and restless.
"Anyway. What was it you needed to know?"
We need love, But all we want is danger
We team up, Then switch sides like a record changer
We team up, Then switch sides like a record changer
