Flora
Flora lets out a bark of laughter, sun-slick and sharp-edged as her braid whips behind her with the motion. "Full signature, obviously," she calls back, cocky and golden in the rising light. "With flourishes. Maybe a little heart over the 'i's' if I’m feeling cute." They were lucky Remi and Hotaru hadn't given her a middle name, with how long her signature already was.
Her next blade is already in hand, and as the projection veers up the softer incline, and she adjusts her stride to match. She doesn’t pause to gauge the terrain—just shifts her weight, skirts a patch of driftwood, and launches the dagger with a clean, fluid motion. The catch isn't perfect—she recalls it a fraction too early and it sails wide—but it still hums close enough to part the air by the projection’s ear. "That would've gotten him to duck, at least," she mutters, more to herself than to Ronin.
She casts a look his way, flushed but grinning, exhilarated in a way that’s different from battle or politics or grief. "Again," she demands. "If this is going to be my only form of therapy, I want to leave with results."
Her next blade is already in hand, and as the projection veers up the softer incline, and she adjusts her stride to match. She doesn’t pause to gauge the terrain—just shifts her weight, skirts a patch of driftwood, and launches the dagger with a clean, fluid motion. The catch isn't perfect—she recalls it a fraction too early and it sails wide—but it still hums close enough to part the air by the projection’s ear. "That would've gotten him to duck, at least," she mutters, more to herself than to Ronin.
She casts a look his way, flushed but grinning, exhilarated in a way that’s different from battle or politics or grief. "Again," she demands. "If this is going to be my only form of therapy, I want to leave with results."
I trace the evidence, make it make some sense
why the wound is still bleedin'
why the wound is still bleedin'
Code stolen from Queen Sky
