we show off our different scarlet letters
The door to the Thieves Guild creaks open just wide enough to let a queen and her accomplices slip through.
Flora steps out with the kind of deliberate ease that only comes from being thoroughly satisfied and just a little smug about it. Her curls have been pinned back up into something tousled and crown-like, and the sway of her hips more than speaks to the relaxation of her muscles. She ducks quickly into the bathroom after tipping a wink to Dantalion and Astaroth, the din of the party briefly replaced with the muffled clink of glass and the low hum of music vibrating through the floor. In the mirror, she’s a little too flushed, a little too tousled—but nothing a touch more red lipstick, a twist of gold rings, and a readjusted corset can't fix. Her lips pout as she fluffs a curl back into place.
When she emerges, the party is still in full swing—someone’s shouting about a drinking contest, and there are cheers from the makeshift dancefloor as another round of shots is slammed back. Her throat still carries the burn of whiskey, and while it’s delicious, she decides she wants something sweeter.
With a confident flick of her fingers and a glint in her eye, Flora heads straight for the bar. It’s still hers, for one more night.
She slides behind it with the grace of someone who knows exactly where every bottle and muddler lives, reaching for lemon, lavender, and the last of Remi's upside-down waterfall gin she keeps hidden behind the spiced rum. There’s something oddly grounding in the act—cooling glass, the press of citrus, the familiar rhythm of a shaker in her hand. A drink that tastes like summer and sugar and the quiet satisfaction of being thoroughly enjoyed.
Only when it’s poured—garnished, glittering, perfect—does she let herself exhale, before licking a bit of sugar from the rim.
Flora steps out with the kind of deliberate ease that only comes from being thoroughly satisfied and just a little smug about it. Her curls have been pinned back up into something tousled and crown-like, and the sway of her hips more than speaks to the relaxation of her muscles. She ducks quickly into the bathroom after tipping a wink to Dantalion and Astaroth, the din of the party briefly replaced with the muffled clink of glass and the low hum of music vibrating through the floor. In the mirror, she’s a little too flushed, a little too tousled—but nothing a touch more red lipstick, a twist of gold rings, and a readjusted corset can't fix. Her lips pout as she fluffs a curl back into place.
When she emerges, the party is still in full swing—someone’s shouting about a drinking contest, and there are cheers from the makeshift dancefloor as another round of shots is slammed back. Her throat still carries the burn of whiskey, and while it’s delicious, she decides she wants something sweeter.
With a confident flick of her fingers and a glint in her eye, Flora heads straight for the bar. It’s still hers, for one more night.
She slides behind it with the grace of someone who knows exactly where every bottle and muddler lives, reaching for lemon, lavender, and the last of Remi's upside-down waterfall gin she keeps hidden behind the spiced rum. There’s something oddly grounding in the act—cooling glass, the press of citrus, the familiar rhythm of a shaker in her hand. A drink that tastes like summer and sugar and the quiet satisfaction of being thoroughly enjoyed.
Only when it’s poured—garnished, glittering, perfect—does she let herself exhale, before licking a bit of sugar from the rim.
