candlewax & polaroids on the hardwood floor
"Oh, I know you’re serious," Flora calls sweetly from the top of the stairs, leaning over the railing with both elbows propped and her curls haloed by the warm lamplight behind her. Her expression is sunshine dipped in venom, all amused cruelty softened by the genuine affection glinting behind her sea-glass eyes.
Below her, Kaisel is still clutching the hem of his divine disaster of a toga, the slit revealing far more thigh than any self-respecting Dragoon ought to show while storming anywhere. She watches him for a second—just a second—before letting out a delighted laugh. "Don’t forget we’ve got to get you a flower crown to match," she adds. "And proper sandals. Gods forbid anyone mistake you for merely a demigod." A hand lifts as if she’s offering benediction, or perhaps just waving off the ridiculousness of what the night’s become. Because yeah, they’d almost set fire to the whole kitchen tonight. And gods if it wouldn’t have been easy to get burned. But tonight, at least, they’d kept the matches in their pockets.
"Alright, your majesty,”" she says, breezing down the hall ahead of him, her bare feet quiet on the polished floor. "This one’s yours."
She opens the door with a flick of her wrist, revealing a room that’s warm and comfortably cluttered—less gold-crowned than her own, but clearly lived-in. There’s the faint scent of coconut and salt still lingering in the air, and a scarf tossed over one of the lamps turns the lighting an easy amber. Flora steps aside, letting him pass. Her hand drifts across the opposite door as she does—painted a shade deeper than the rest, a bold E carved into the wood. She doesn’t say anything about it, just lets her fingers catch briefly on the frame before moving on.
"Shower’s just there," she says, nodding toward a smaller door off to the side. "Extra blankets in the chest, though I doubt you’ll need them. Torchline doesn’t exactly do cold." She hesitates for a second, thumb tapping lightly against her thigh, before jerking her head toward the far end of the hall. "My room’s the one with all the plants trying to take over. If you need anything."
Below her, Kaisel is still clutching the hem of his divine disaster of a toga, the slit revealing far more thigh than any self-respecting Dragoon ought to show while storming anywhere. She watches him for a second—just a second—before letting out a delighted laugh. "Don’t forget we’ve got to get you a flower crown to match," she adds. "And proper sandals. Gods forbid anyone mistake you for merely a demigod." A hand lifts as if she’s offering benediction, or perhaps just waving off the ridiculousness of what the night’s become. Because yeah, they’d almost set fire to the whole kitchen tonight. And gods if it wouldn’t have been easy to get burned. But tonight, at least, they’d kept the matches in their pockets.
"Alright, your majesty,”" she says, breezing down the hall ahead of him, her bare feet quiet on the polished floor. "This one’s yours."
She opens the door with a flick of her wrist, revealing a room that’s warm and comfortably cluttered—less gold-crowned than her own, but clearly lived-in. There’s the faint scent of coconut and salt still lingering in the air, and a scarf tossed over one of the lamps turns the lighting an easy amber. Flora steps aside, letting him pass. Her hand drifts across the opposite door as she does—painted a shade deeper than the rest, a bold E carved into the wood. She doesn’t say anything about it, just lets her fingers catch briefly on the frame before moving on.
"Shower’s just there," she says, nodding toward a smaller door off to the side. "Extra blankets in the chest, though I doubt you’ll need them. Torchline doesn’t exactly do cold." She hesitates for a second, thumb tapping lightly against her thigh, before jerking her head toward the far end of the hall. "My room’s the one with all the plants trying to take over. If you need anything."
