flora
Flora watches him go with an expression that walks a tightrope between fond and exasperated, one hand still wrapped around the wheel and the other lifting to shield her eyes from the glaring sun. The sight of her brother in flower-print shorts, pink sunglasses, nipple piercing gleaming like some smug beacon, and leather gloves to top it all off… well, it’s certainly not the weirdest thing she’s seen on this ship.
"Just don’t fall off and get yourself skewered please,” she calls after him, voice half-laced with laughter. “Or worse, sunburned."
The wind tugs at her braid as she adjusts their hover with a few deft pulls, her bangles rattling like wind chimes with each shift. Sweat slides in lazy rivulets down her spine, soaking into the back of her bikini top, and Spice—curled in a patch of shade under the rigging—lets out a disapproving trill.
"I know," she mutters to the dragon. "It’s too hot for this shit."
Flora's fingers tighten on the wheel, keeping La Verbena steady above the dunes. The sails creak faintly, flaring with the heat-glossed breeze, and for a moment it almost feels peaceful—if you ignored the fact that they were probably one wrong gust from being skewered, roasted, or void-picked.
"God-whore level jewellery," she repeats under her breath with a smirk. "Classy." Then, louder: "Don’t be dramatic, I’ll only cry for five minutes if something eats you." Her voice softens into the dry hush of the desert air. "Maybe ten."
"Just don’t fall off and get yourself skewered please,” she calls after him, voice half-laced with laughter. “Or worse, sunburned."
The wind tugs at her braid as she adjusts their hover with a few deft pulls, her bangles rattling like wind chimes with each shift. Sweat slides in lazy rivulets down her spine, soaking into the back of her bikini top, and Spice—curled in a patch of shade under the rigging—lets out a disapproving trill.
"I know," she mutters to the dragon. "It’s too hot for this shit."
Flora's fingers tighten on the wheel, keeping La Verbena steady above the dunes. The sails creak faintly, flaring with the heat-glossed breeze, and for a moment it almost feels peaceful—if you ignored the fact that they were probably one wrong gust from being skewered, roasted, or void-picked.
"God-whore level jewellery," she repeats under her breath with a smirk. "Classy." Then, louder: "Don’t be dramatic, I’ll only cry for five minutes if something eats you." Her voice softens into the dry hush of the desert air. "Maybe ten."
My house of stone, your ivy grows
And now I'm covered in you
And now I'm covered in you
