candlewax & polaroids on the hardwood floor
Flora recoils with a full-body shudder, her spoon clattering loudly into the sink as she levels him with a deeply unimpressed stare. "Kaisel." The name is a warning and a condemnation all in one. "If you so much as mime puking in my kitchen, I will personally lace your next snack with laxatives and then kick you out."
She doesn’t actually sound angry. More like scandalized. Amused. Somewhere between how dare you and this is why I keep you around. Her hip bumps his again—harder this time—as she snatches her spoon back, brandishing it with the seriousness of a duel.
But then his arms lift toward her cabinets and he bellows like a snack-fuelled prophet, and the air shifts. Flora’s head snaps toward the floating caramel chips with all the measured calm of an accepted who summons spirits for all sorts of things, but still not entirely unfazed. A beat later and the maple syrup is sashaying its way across the counter like it’s working the stage at the Hanged Man, and Flora’s brows lift higher with every glide.
Then, a furious shriek erupts from somewhere near the fruit bowl.
"Spiiiiice." Flora’s tone is caught between warning and resignation as her tiny white dragon launches herself from the countertop in a flurry of frosty outrage, wings flared, tail whipping as she flutters a few aggressive laps around the floating bottle of syrup. She snaps her teeth—not hard, just enough to make a point—and lets out another shriek, this one sharper, colder.
"She hates when spirits mess with the pantry," Flora explains through a snort, grabbing the caramel chips out of the air before Spice can go full ice storm. "She’s very particular about snack hierarchy." Lowering her voice conspiratorially, she adds, "She likes to pretend she’s the snack guardian. It’s her thing." Some dragons hoarded gold, others snacks.
She doesn’t actually sound angry. More like scandalized. Amused. Somewhere between how dare you and this is why I keep you around. Her hip bumps his again—harder this time—as she snatches her spoon back, brandishing it with the seriousness of a duel.
But then his arms lift toward her cabinets and he bellows like a snack-fuelled prophet, and the air shifts. Flora’s head snaps toward the floating caramel chips with all the measured calm of an accepted who summons spirits for all sorts of things, but still not entirely unfazed. A beat later and the maple syrup is sashaying its way across the counter like it’s working the stage at the Hanged Man, and Flora’s brows lift higher with every glide.
Then, a furious shriek erupts from somewhere near the fruit bowl.
"Spiiiiice." Flora’s tone is caught between warning and resignation as her tiny white dragon launches herself from the countertop in a flurry of frosty outrage, wings flared, tail whipping as she flutters a few aggressive laps around the floating bottle of syrup. She snaps her teeth—not hard, just enough to make a point—and lets out another shriek, this one sharper, colder.
"She hates when spirits mess with the pantry," Flora explains through a snort, grabbing the caramel chips out of the air before Spice can go full ice storm. "She’s very particular about snack hierarchy." Lowering her voice conspiratorially, she adds, "She likes to pretend she’s the snack guardian. It’s her thing." Some dragons hoarded gold, others snacks.
