lay your soul onto mine
The training grounds behind the Barracks are blanketed in a stubborn layer of frost, the kind that refuses to melt even under Flowerbirth’s tentative sun. Halo, ever defiant, holds spring at bay with breath that still fogs the air and snow that crunches underfoot. Flora stands at the center of the arena, curls bundled beneath a fur-lined hood, a sleek cloak swirling around her calves in the wind. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold, her breath pluming in steady intervals as she rolls her shoulders loose beneath her fitted coat. She’s traded her usual Torchline elegance for something more utilitarian—dark leathers and sturdy boots, lined gloves peeled off and shoved into her belt so she can feel the hilts of her weapons properly.
Her three feather daggers rest in a loose fan at her feet, gleaming faintly. Beyond them, wooden training dummies—hulking things armored in battered mail—stand like silent sentinels. One in particular bears the scars of previous practice, its midsection split and restitched from a recent encounter. With a flick of her wrist, the first dagger sails through the air, singing as it cuts forward. Before it strikes the target, her hand whips back, fingers curling in a smooth, commanding gesture—calling it home even as it moves.
The blade hums, veering slightly off course to arc back toward her. It doesn’t hit the dummy—but it clips the edge of its shoulder, spinning with a whisper of wind before slapping back into her palm. She winces. "Too early," she mutters to herself, annoyance crackling like kindling in her chest.
Her three feather daggers rest in a loose fan at her feet, gleaming faintly. Beyond them, wooden training dummies—hulking things armored in battered mail—stand like silent sentinels. One in particular bears the scars of previous practice, its midsection split and restitched from a recent encounter. With a flick of her wrist, the first dagger sails through the air, singing as it cuts forward. Before it strikes the target, her hand whips back, fingers curling in a smooth, commanding gesture—calling it home even as it moves.
The blade hums, veering slightly off course to arc back toward her. It doesn’t hit the dummy—but it clips the edge of its shoulder, spinning with a whisper of wind before slapping back into her palm. She winces. "Too early," she mutters to herself, annoyance crackling like kindling in her chest.
