your touch brought forth an incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand
The market hums around her, vibrant as ever—sea breeze tangled with spices and brine, voices rising in playful argument or firm barter. Flora moves through it like she belongs (because she does, at least for now), curls bouncing in the sun, gold jewelry catching the light with every confident step. She’s dressed in her usual hybrid of practical and eye-catching: faded jeans that hug her hips and a white corsetted top that leaves her arms bare and her intentions undeniable.
Behind her, a man with a broad chest and an exhausted horse trails her slowly, the cart already stacked with coils of rope, an anchor, lanterns, crates of dry goods, and what might be a hammock peeking out from the top. Flora barely spares it a glance.
"Not that kind of sail," she says now, leaning across a market stall and tapping one manicured finger against a swatch of dull canvas the merchant is holding up. "No offence, but I’m not trying to fly a funeral tent."
The merchant starts to protest, but Flora cuts in, already unrolling a parchment sketch she’d brought with her. It’s loose but clear—a sail shaped and rigged like any other, but segmented and tinted like the wings of a butterfly, or cathedral windows cast in sunlight. "See? Stained glass vibes. Without the glass, obviously. Something sheer but strong, with a bit of shimmer if you’ve got it. I don’t care how long it takes to make, but I want it to catch the light."
She pauses, frowning slightly as her finger taps once more against the edge of the drawing. "Also—delivery only. I won’t be in the city once the barriers go up. You’ll have to bring it down to the docks."
Behind her, a man with a broad chest and an exhausted horse trails her slowly, the cart already stacked with coils of rope, an anchor, lanterns, crates of dry goods, and what might be a hammock peeking out from the top. Flora barely spares it a glance.
"Not that kind of sail," she says now, leaning across a market stall and tapping one manicured finger against a swatch of dull canvas the merchant is holding up. "No offence, but I’m not trying to fly a funeral tent."
The merchant starts to protest, but Flora cuts in, already unrolling a parchment sketch she’d brought with her. It’s loose but clear—a sail shaped and rigged like any other, but segmented and tinted like the wings of a butterfly, or cathedral windows cast in sunlight. "See? Stained glass vibes. Without the glass, obviously. Something sheer but strong, with a bit of shimmer if you’ve got it. I don’t care how long it takes to make, but I want it to catch the light."
She pauses, frowning slightly as her finger taps once more against the edge of the drawing. "Also—delivery only. I won’t be in the city once the barriers go up. You’ll have to bring it down to the docks."
