flora
The wind in the Citadel bites differently than it does on the Tundra—sharper, more personal, like it’s testing your mettle as you walk Halo’s streets. Flora pulls her cloak tighter as she weaves through the afternoon bustle, the magical dome overhead dulling the worst of the weather but not erasing it entirely. Snow still crunches underfoot, and the scent of cold metal and pine clings to every surface.
The streets are alive with motion: Halovians in heavy wool and fur barter near the greenhouse, exchanging smoked meats for imported fruit; children tug mittens from their wrists as they chase each other around the edge of the public hearth; guards patrol with practiced vigilance, weapons at ease but always close. Despite the season, there’s a vitality here—a carved-from-stone kind of strength that reminds Flora, just faintly, of Torchline.
She steps through the crowd with ease, a natural sort of grace in the way she sidesteps a stubborn goat being led by a laughing child and ducks under the outstretched arm of a man hanging a bundle of fresh herbs outside a shop. Her dark cloak flares slightly with the movement, and every so often, she catches a curious glance—someone recognizing her not just as the Queen of Torchline, but as the girl from that broadcast.
The Palace glints in the distance like something plucked from a dream—sharp, cold, ethereal. Its glass and stone spires rise against the blue-white sky, casting long shadows over the snow-dusted square that stretches before it. Flora pauses at the notice board standing to one side of the main thoroughfare, the old wood half-frosted over and bristling with recent postings. She brushes a gloved hand across the surface to clear the buildup of frost, scanning headlines, most of which written in Deimos' firm but legible script.
She reads on, lips pressed thin in thought. Halo was strong, but even strength had cracks. And right now, the queen wasn’t sure if she was here to lend her own... or to hide in theirs.
The streets are alive with motion: Halovians in heavy wool and fur barter near the greenhouse, exchanging smoked meats for imported fruit; children tug mittens from their wrists as they chase each other around the edge of the public hearth; guards patrol with practiced vigilance, weapons at ease but always close. Despite the season, there’s a vitality here—a carved-from-stone kind of strength that reminds Flora, just faintly, of Torchline.
She steps through the crowd with ease, a natural sort of grace in the way she sidesteps a stubborn goat being led by a laughing child and ducks under the outstretched arm of a man hanging a bundle of fresh herbs outside a shop. Her dark cloak flares slightly with the movement, and every so often, she catches a curious glance—someone recognizing her not just as the Queen of Torchline, but as the girl from that broadcast.
The Palace glints in the distance like something plucked from a dream—sharp, cold, ethereal. Its glass and stone spires rise against the blue-white sky, casting long shadows over the snow-dusted square that stretches before it. Flora pauses at the notice board standing to one side of the main thoroughfare, the old wood half-frosted over and bristling with recent postings. She brushes a gloved hand across the surface to clear the buildup of frost, scanning headlines, most of which written in Deimos' firm but legible script.
She reads on, lips pressed thin in thought. Halo was strong, but even strength had cracks. And right now, the queen wasn’t sure if she was here to lend her own... or to hide in theirs.
I'm stupid but I'm clever
I can make a shitshow look a whole lot like forever and ever
I can make a shitshow look a whole lot like forever and ever
